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QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR. 


S'  ’■ 


’kf' 


THE 


QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 

BEING 

A STUDY  OF  THE  GREEK  MYTHS 


CLOUD  AND  STORM 


JOHN  RUSKIN,  LLD. 


NEW  YORK: 

W.  L.  ALLISON  COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Preface i 

1.  ATHENA  CHALINITIS. 

' [^Athena  in  the  Heavens^ 

Lecture  on  the  Greek  myths  of  Storm, 
given  (partly)  in  University  College,  Lon- 
don, March  9,  1869 7 

II.  ATHENA  KERAMITIS. 

[Athena  in  the  Earth 

Study,  supplementary  to  the  preceding  lect- 
ure, of  the  supposed  and  actual  relations 
of  Athena  to  the  vital  force  in  material 
organism 87 

III.  ATHENA  ERGANE. 

[Athena  in  the  Hearti) 

Various  notes  relating  to  the  Conception  of 
Athena  as  the  Directress  of  the  Imagina- 
tion and  Will 148 


: 


PREFACE. 


My  days  and  strength  have  lately  been 
much  broken  ; and  I never  more  felt  the 
insufficiency  of  both  than  in  preparing  for 
the  press  the  following  desultory  memoran- 
da on  a most  noble  subject.  But  I leave 
them  now  as  they  stand,  for  no  time  nor 
labor  would  be  enough  to  complete  them  to 
my  contentment ; and  I believe  that  they 
contain  suggestions  which  may  be  followed 
with  safety,  by  persons  who  are  beginning 
to  take  interest  in  the  aspects  of  mythology, 
which  only  recent  investigation  has  removed 
from  the  region  of  conjecture  into  that  of 
rational  inquiry.  I have  some  advantage, 
also,  from  my  field  work,  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  myths  relating  to  natural  phenom- 
ena ; and  I have  had  always  near  me,  since 
we  were  at  college  together,  a sure,  and  un- 
weariedly  kind,  guide,  in  my  friend  Charles 
Newton,  to  whom  we  owe  the  finding  of 


ss 


ptet^ce. 


more  treasure  in  mines  of  marble  than,  were 
it  rightly  estimated,  all  California  could  buy. 
I must  not,  however,  permit  the  chance  of 
his  name  being  in  any  wise  associated  with 
my  errors.  Much  of  my  work  has  been 
done  obstinately  in  my  own  way  ; and  he 
is  never  responsible  for  me,  though  he  has 
often  kept  me  right,  or  at  least  enabled  me 
to  advance  in  a right  direction.  Absolutely 
right  no  one  can  be  in  such  matters  ; nor 
does  a day  pass  without  convincing  every 
honest  student  of  antiquity  of  some  partial 
error,  and  showing  him  better  how  to  think, 
and  where  to  look.  But  I knew  that  there 
was  no  hope  of  my  being  able  to  enter  with 
advantage  on  the  fields  of  history  opened  by 
the  splendid  investigation  of  recent  philo- 
Jogists,  though  I could  qualify  myself,  by 
attention  and  sympathy,  to  understand,  here 
and  there,  a verse  of  Homer  s or  Hesiod’s, 
as  the  simple  people  did  for  whom  they  sang. 

Even  while  I correct  these  sheets  for  press, 
a lecture  by  Professor  Tyndall  has  been  put 
into  my  hands,  which  I ought  to  have  heard 
last  1 6th  of  January,  but  was  hindered  by 
mischance  ; and  which,  I now  find,  com- 
pletes, in  two  important  particulars,  the 


preface* 


3 

evidence  of  an  instinctive  truth  in  ancient 
symbolism  ; showing,  first,  that  the  Greek 
conception  of  an  aetherial  element  pervading 
space  is  justified  by  the  closest  reasoning 
modern  physicists ; and,  secondly,  that  the 
blue  of  the  sky,  hitherto  thought  to  be  caused 
by  watery  vapor,  is,  indeed,  reflected  from 
the  divided  air  itself ; so  that  the  bright 
blue  of  the  eyes  of  Athena,  and  the  deep 
blue  of  her  aegis,  prove  to  be  accurate  myth- 
ic expressions  of  natural  phenomena  which 
it  is  an  uttermost  triuipph  of  recent  science 
to  have  revealed. 

Indeed,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine 
triumph  more  complete.  To  form,  ^‘within 
an  experimental  tube,  ai  bit  of  more  perfect 
sky  than  the  sky  itself ! here  is  magic  of 
the  finest  sort  ! singularly  reversed  from  that 
Df  old  time,  which  only  asserted  its  com- 
petency to  enclose  in  bottles  elemental 
forces  that  were — not  of  the  sky. 

Let  me,  in  thanking  Professor  Tyndall  for 
the  true  wonder  of  this  piece  of  work,  ask 
his  pardon,  and  that  of  all  masters  in  phys- 
ical science,  for  any  words  of  mine,  either  in 
the  following  pages  or  elsewhere,  that  may 
ever  seem  to  fail  in  the  respect  due  to  their 


4 


preface. 


great  powers  of  thought,  or  in  the  admira- 
tion due  to  the  far  scope  of  their  discovery. 
But  I will  be  judged  by  themselves,  if  I have 
not  bitter  reason  to  ask  them  to  teach  us 
more  than  yet  they  have  taught. 

This  first  day  of  May,  1869,  I am  writing 
where  my  work  was  begun  thirty-five  years 
ago,  within  sight  of  the  snows  of  the  higher 
Alps.  In  that  half  of  the  permitted  life  of 
man,  I have  seen  strange  evil  brought  upon 
every  scene  that  I best  loved,  or  tried  to 
make  beloved  by  others.  The  light  which 
once  flushed  those  pale  summits  with  its 
rose  at  dawn,  and  purple  at  sunset,  is  now 
umbered  and  faint ; the  air  which  once  in- 
laid the  clefts  of  all  their  golden  crags  with 
azure  is  now  defiled  with  languid  coils  of 
smoke,  belched  from  worse  than  volcanic 
fires  ; their  very  glacier  waves  are  ebbing, 
and  their  snows  fading,  as  if  Hell  had 
breathed  on  them  ; the  waters  that  once 
sank  at  their  feet  into  crystalline  rest  are 
now  dimmed  and  foul,  from  deep  to  deep, 
and  shore  to  shore.  These  are  no  careless 
words — they  are  accurately,  horribly,  true. 
I know  what  the  Swiss  lakes  were  ; no  pool 
of  Alpine  fountain  at  its  source  was  clearer. 


IPretace* 


5 


This  morning,  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  at 
half  a mile  from  the  beach,  I could  scarcely 
see  my  oar-blade  a fathom  deep. 

The  light,  the  air,  the  waters,  all  defiled  ! 
How  of  the  earth  itself?  Take  this  one  fact 
for  type  of  honor  done  by  the  modern  Swiss 
to  the  earth  of  his  nati . e land.  There  used 
to  be  A little  rock  at  the  end  of  the  avenue 
by  the  port  of  Neuchatel ; there,  the  last 
marble  of  the  foot  of  Jura,  sloping  to  the  blue 
water,  and  (at  this  time  of  year)  covered 
w'th  bright  pink  tufts  of  Saponaria.  I 
went,  three  days  since,  to  gather  a blossom 
at  the  place.  The  goodly  native  rock  and  its 
flowers  were  covered  with  the  dust  and  ref- 
use of  the  town  ; but,  in  the  middle  of  the 
avenue,  was  a newly-constructed  artificial 
rockery,  with  a fountain  twisted  through  a 
spinning  spout,  and  an  inscription  on  one 
of  its  loose-tumbled  stones, — 

“Aux  Botanistes,  * 

Le  club  Jurassique,’* 

Ah,  masters  of  modern  science,  give  me 
back  my  Athena  out  of  your  vials,  and  seal, 
if  it  may  be,  once  more,  Asmodeus  therein. 
You  have  divided  the  elements,  and  united 
them;  enslaved  them  upon  the  earth,  and 


6 


©reface< 


discerned  them  in  the  stars.  Teach  us,  now, 
but  this  of  them,  which  is.  all  that  man  need 
know, — that  the  Air  is  given  to  him  for  his 
life ; and  the  Rain  to  his  thirst,  and  for  his 
baptism  ; and  the  Fire  for  warmth  ; and  the 
Sun  for  sight ; and  the  Earth  for  his  meat— 
and  his  Rest. 

Vbvay,  May  i,  1869. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR 


I. 

ATHENA  CHALINITIS.* 

4 

{A/hena  in  the  Heavens, ) 

LECTURE  ON  THE  GREEK  MYTHS  OF  STORM,  GIVEN 
(partly)  in  university  college,  LONDON, 
MARCH  9,  1869. 

I.  I WILL  not  ask  your  pardon  for  endeav- 
oring to  interest  you  in  the  subject  of  Greek 
Mythology  ; but  I must  ask  your  permission 
to  approach  it  in  a temper  differing  from 
that  in  which  it  is  frequently  treated.  We 
cannot  justly  interpret  the  religion  of  any 
people,  unless  we  are  prepared  to  admit  that 
we  ourselves,  as  well  as  they,  are  liable  to 

Athena  the  Restrainer. The  name  is  given  to 
her  as  having  helped  Bellerophon  to  bridle  Pegasus,  the 
tying  cloud. 


7 


8 


Zbc  (Slucen  of  tbe  Uiu 


error  in  matters  of  faith  ; and  that  the  con- 
victions of  others,  however  singular,  may  in 
some  points  have  been  well  founded,  while 
our  own,  however  reasonable,  may  in  some 
particulars  be  mistaken.  You  must  forgive 
me,  therefore,  for  not  always  distinctively 
calling  the  creeds  of  the  past  superstition,’' 
and  the  creeds  of  the  present  day  ‘‘religion  ; ** 
as  well  as  for  assuming  that  a faith  now 
confessed  may  sometimes  be  superficial, 
and  that  a faith  long  forgotten  may  once 
have  been  sincere.  It  is  the  task  of  the 
Divine  to  condemn  the  errors  of  antiquity, 
and  of  the  philologists  to  account  for  them  ; 
I will  only  pray  you  to  read,  with  patience, 
and  human  sympathy,  the  thoughts  of  men 
who  lived  without  blame  in  a darkness  they 
could  not  dispel ; and  to  remember  that, 
whatever  charge  of  folly  may  justly  attach 
to  the  saying,  “There  is  no  God,"  the  folly 
is  prouder,  deeper,  and  less  pardonable,  in 
saying,  “There  is  no  God  but  for  ma'* 

2.  A myth,  in  its  simplest  definition,  is  a 
story  with  a meaning  attached  to  it  other  than 
it  seems  to  have  at  first ; and  the  fact  that 
it  has  such  a meaning  is  generally  marked 
by  some  of  its  circumstances  being  extra- 


Cbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Miu 


9 


ordinary,  or,  in  the  common  use  of  the  word, 
unnatural.  Thus  if  I tell  you  that  Hercules 
killed  a water-serpent  in  the  lake  of  Lerna, 
and  if  I mean,  and  you  understand,  nothing 
more  than  that  fact,  the  story,  whether  true 
or  false,  is  not  a myth.  But  if  by  telling 
you  this,  I mean  that  Hercules  purified  the 
stagnation  of  many  streams  from  deadly 
miasmata,  my  story,  however  simple,  is  a 
true  myth  ; only,  as,  if  I left  it  in  that  sim- 
plicity, you  would  probably  look  for  nothing 
beyond,  it  will  be  wise  in  me  to  surprise 
your  attention  by  adding  some  singular  cir- 
cumstance ; for  instance,  that  the  water- 
snake  had  several  heads,  which  revived  as 
fast  as  they  were  killed,  and  which  poisoned 
even  the  foot  that  trod  upon  them  as  they 
slept.  And  in  proportion  to  the  fulness  of 
intended  meaning  I shall  probably  multiply 
and  refine  upon  these  improbabilities  ; as, 
suppose,  if,  instead  of  desiring  only  to  tell 
you  that  Hercules  purified  a marsh,  I wished 
you  to  understand  that  he  contended  with 
the  venom  and  vapor  of  envy  and  evil 
ambition,  whether  in  other  men’s  souls  or 
in  his  own,  and  choked  that  malaria  only  by 
supreme  toil, — I might  tell  you  ^hat  this 


lo  XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Mix* 

serpent  was  formed  by  the  goddess  whose 
pride  was  in  the  trial  of  Hercules  ; and  that 
its  place  of  abode  was  by  a palm-tree  ; and 
that  for  every  head  of  it  that  was  cut  off, 
two  rose  up  with  renewed  life  ; and  that 
the  hero  found  at  last  he  could  not  kill  the 
creature  at  all  by  cutting  its  heads  off  or 
crushing  them,  but  only  by  burning  them 
down  ; and  that  the  midmost  of  them  could 
not  be  killed  even  that  way,  but  had  to  be 
buried  alive.  Only  in  proportion  as  I mean 
more,  I shall  certainly  appear  more  absurd 
in  my  statement ; and  at  last  when  I get 
unendurably  significant,  all  practical  per- 
sons will  agree  that  I was  talking  mere  non- 
sense from  the  beginning,  and  never  meant 
anything  at  all. 

3.  It  is  just  possible,  however,  also,  that 
the  story-teller  may  all  along  have  meant 
nothing  but  what  he  said ; and  that,  incred- 
ible as  the  events  may  appear,  he  himself 
literally  believed — and  expected  you  also  to 
believe — all  this  about  Hercules,  without  any 
latent  moral  or  history  whatever.  And  it  is 
very  necessary,  in  reading  traditions  of  this 
kind,  to  determine,  first  of  alb  whether  you 
are  listening  to  a simple  person,  who  is 


XLbc  iSlueen  ot  the  Bit*  n 

relating  what,  at  all  events,  he  believes  to 
be  true  (and  may,  therefore,  possibly  have 
been  so  to  some  extent),  or  to  a reserved  phi- 
losopher, who  is  veiling  a theory  of  the 
universe  under  the  grotesque  of  a fairy  tale. 
It  is,  in  general,  more  likely  that  the  first 
supposition  should  be  the  right  one  : simple 
and  credulous  persons  are,  perhaps  fortu- 
nately, more  common  than  philosophers  ; 
and  it  is  of  the  highest  importance  that  you 
should  take  their  innocent  testimony  as 
it  was  meant,  and  not  efface,  under  the 
graceful  explanation  which  your  cultivated 
ingenuity  may  suggest,  either  the  evidence 
their  story  may  contain  (such  as  it  is  worth) 
of  an  extraordinary  event  having  really  taken 
place,  or  the  unquestionable  light  which  it 
will  cast  upon  the  character  of  the  person 
by  whom  it  was  frankly  believed.  And  to 
deal  with  Greek  religion  honestly,  you  must 
at  once  understand  that  this  literal  belief 
was,  in  the  mind  of  the  general  people,  as 
deeply  rooted  as  ours  in  the  legends  of  our 
own  sacred  book ; and  that  a basis  of 
unmiraculous  event  was  as  little  suspected, 
and  an  explanatory  symbolism  as  rarely 

traced,  by  them,  as  by  us. 

\ 


12  Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Uiu 

You  must,  therefore,  observe  that  I deeply 
degrade  the  position  which  such  a myth  as 
that  just  referred  to  occupied  in  the  Greek 
mind,  by  comparing  it  (for  fear  of  offending 
you)  to  our  story  of  St.  George  and  the 
Dragon.  Still,  the  analogy  is  perfect  in 
minor  respects ; and  though  it  fails  to  give 
you  any  notion  of  the  vitally  religious 
earnestness  of  the  Greek  faith,  it  will  exactly 
illustrate  he  manner  in  which  faith  laid  hold 
of  its  objects. 

4.  This  story  of  Hercules  and  the  Hydra, 
then,  was  to  the  general  Greek  mind,  in  its 
best  days,  a tale  about  a real  hero  and  a 
real  monster.  Not  one  in  a thousand  knew 
anything  of  the  way  in  which  the  story  had 
arisen,  any  more  than  the  English  peasant 
generally  is  aware  of  the  plebeian  original 
of  St.  George  ; or  supposes  that  there  were 
once  alive  in  the  world,  with  sharp  teeth 
and  claws,  real,  and  very  ugly,  flying  drag- 
ons. On  the  other  hand,  few  persons  traced 
any  moral  or  symbolical  meaning  in  the 
story,  and  the  average  Greek  was  as  far 
from  imagining  any  interpretation  like  that  I 
have  just  given  you,  as  an  average  English- 
man is  from  seeing  in  St.  George  the  Red 


Zbc  (Sluecn  of  tbc  Uit. 


13 


Cross  Knight  of  Spenser,  or  in  the  Dragon 
the  Spirit  of  Infidelity.  But,  for  all  that, 
there  was  a certain  undercurrent  of  con- 
sciousness in  all  minds  that  the  figures  meant 
more  than  they  at  first  showed  ; and,  accord- 
ing to  each  man's  own  faculties  of  senti- 
ment, he  judged  and  read  them  ; just  as  a 
Knight  of  the  Garter  reads  more  in  the  jewel 
on  his  collar  than  the  George  and  Dragon 
of  a public-house  expresses  to  the  host  or  to 
his  customers.  Thus,  to  the  mean  person 
the  myth  always  meant  little  ; to  the  noble 
person,  much  ; and  the  greater  their  famili- 
arity with  it,  the  more  contemptible  it  be- 
came to  one,  and  the  more  sacred  to  the 
other  ; until  vulgar  commentators  explained 
it  entirely  away,  while  Virgil  made  it  the 
crowning  glory  of  his  choral  hymn  to  Her- 
cules. 

‘‘  Around  thee,  powerless  to  infect  thy  soul, 

Rose,  in  his  crested  crowd,  the  Lerna  worm.*^ 

“ Non  te  rationis  egentem 
Lernaeus  turba  capitum  circumstetit  anguis.” 

And  although,  in  any  special  toil  of  the 
hero's  life,  the  moral  interpretation  was  rarely 
with  definiteness  attached  to  its  event,  yet 


14 


XLbc  (auecn  of  tbe  Bir* 


in  the  whole  course  of  the  life,  not  only  a 
symbolical  meaning,  but  the  warrant  for 
the  existence  of  a real  spiritual  power,  was 
apprehended  of  all  men.  Hercules  was  no 
dead  hero,  to  be  remembered  only  as  a 
victor  over  monsters  of  the  past — harmless 
now  as  slain.  He  was  the  perpetual  type 
and  mirror  of  heroism,  and  its  present  and 
living  aid  against  every  ravenous  form  of 
human  trial  and  pain. 

5.  But,  if  we  seek  to  know  more  than  this 
and  to  ascertain  the  manner  in  which  the 
story  first  crystallized  into  its  shape,  we 
shall  find  ourselves  led  back  generally  to 
one  or  other  of  two  sources — either  to  actual 
historical  events,  represented  by  the  fancy 
under  figures  personifying  them  ; or  else  to 
natural  phenomena  similarly  endowed  with 
life  by  the  imaginative  power  usually  more 
or  less  under  the  influence  of  terror.  The 
historical  myths  we  must  leave  the  masters 
of  history  to  follow  ; they,  and  the  events 
they  record,  being  yet  involved  in  great, 
though  attractive  and  penetrable,  mystery. 
But  the  stars,  and  hills,  and  storms  are  with 
us  now,  as  they  were  with  others  of  old ; 
and  it  only  needs  that  we  look  at  them  with 


lEbc  (Sluccn  of  tbe  air. 


15 


* 

the  earnestness  of  those  childish  eyes  to 
understand  the  first  words  spoken  of  them 
by  the  children  of  men,  and  then,  in  all  the 
most  beautiful  and  enduring  myths,  we 
shall  find,  not  only  a literal  story  of  a real 
person,  not  only  a parallel  imagery  of  moral 
principle,  but  an  underlying  worship  of  nat- 
ural phenomena,  out  of  which  both  have 
sprung,  and  in  which  both  forever  remain 
rooted.  Thus,  from  the  real  sun,  rising  and 
setting, — from  the  real  atmosphere,  calm  in 
its  dominion  of  unfading  blue,  and  fierce  in 
its  descent  of  tempest, — the  Greek  forms 
first  the  idea  of  two  entirely  personal  and 
corporeal  gods,  whose  limbs  are  clothed  in 
divine  flesh,  and  whose  brows  are  crowned 
with  divine  beauty ; yet  so  real  that  the 
quiver  rattles  at  their  shoulder,  and  the 
chariot  bends  beneath  their  weight.  And,  on 
the  other  hand,  collaterally  with  these  cor- 
poreal images,  and  never  for  one  instant 
separated  from  them,  he  conceives  also  two 
omnipresent  spiritual  influences,  of  which 
one  illuminates,  as  the  sun,  with  a constant 
fire,  whatever  in  humanity  is  skilful  and 
wise  ; and  the  other,  like  the  living  air, 
breathes  the  calm  of  heavenly  fortitude,  and 


i6  ^be  (aueen  of  tbc 

strength  of  righteous  anger,  into  ever}/ 
human  breast  that  is  pure  and  brave. 

6.  Now,  therefore,  in  nearly  every  myth 
of  importance,  and  certainly  in  every  one 
of  those  of  which  I shall  speak  to-night,  you 
have  to  discern  these  three  structural  parts, 
— the  root  and  the  two  branches  : the  root, 
in  physical  existence,  sun,  or  sky,  or  cloud, 
or  sea  ; then  the  personal  incarnation  of 
that,  becoming  a trusted  and  companionable 
deity,  with  whom  you  may  walk  hand  in 
hand,  as  a child  with  its  brother  or  its  sister  > 
and,  lastly,  the  moral  significance  of  the 
image,  which  is  in  all  the  great  myths  etep 
nally  and  beneficently  true. 

7.  The  great  myths  ; that  is  to  say,  myths 
made  by  great  people.  For  the  first  plain 
fact  about  myth-making  is  one  which  has 
been  most  strangely  lost  sight  of, — that  you 
cannot  make  a myth  unless  you  have  some- 
thing to  make  it  of.  You  cannot  tell  a secret 
which  you  don’t  know.  If  the  myth  is  about 
the  sky,  it  must  have  been  made  by  some- 
body who  had  looked  at  the  sky.  If  the  myth 
is  about  justice  and  fortitude,  it  must  have 
been  made  by  some  one  who  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  just  or  patient.  According  to  the 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbc 


17 


quantity  of  understanding  in  the  person  will 
be  the  quantity  of  significance  in  his  fable  ; 
and  the  myth  of  a simple  and  ignorant  race 
must  necessarily  mean  little,  because  a sim- 
ple and  ignorant  race  have  little  to  mean. 
So  the  great  question  in  reading  a story  is  al- 
ways, not  what  wild  hunter  dreamed,  or 
what  childish  race  first  dreaded  it ; but  w^hat 
wise  man  first  perfectly  told,  and  what 
strong  people  first  perfectly  lived  by  it. 
And  the  real  meaning  of  any  myth  is  that 
which  it  has  at  the  noblest  age  of  the  nation 
among  whom  it  is  current.  The  farther  back 
you  pierce,  the  less  significance  you  will 
find,  until  you  come  to  the  first  narrow 
thought,  which,  indeed,  contains  the  germ 
of  the  accomplished  tradition  ; but  only  as 
the  seed  contains  the  flower.  As  the  intelli- 
gence and  passion  of  the  race  develop,  they 
cling  to  and  nourish  their  beloved  and  sacred 
legend ; leaf  by  leaf  it  expands  under  the 
touch  of  more  pure  affections,  and  more 
delicate  imagination,  until  at  last  the  perfect 
fable  burgeons  out  into  symmetry  of  milky 
stem  and  honied  bell. 

8.  But  through  whatever  changes  it  may 
pass,  remember  that  our  right  readingof  it  is 
a 


i8  trt)c  (Slueen  of  tbe 

wholly  dependent  on  the  materials  we  have 
in  our  own  minds  for  an  intelligent  answer- 
ing sympathy.  If  it  first  arose  among  a 
people  who  dwelt  under  stainless  skies, 
and  measured  their  journeys  by  ascending 
and  declining  stars,  we  certainly  cannot 
read  their  story,  if  we  have  never  seen  any- 
thing above  us  in  the  day  but  smoke,  nor 
anything  around  us  in  the  night  but  candles. 
If  the  tale  goes  on  to  change  clouds  or  planets 
into  living  creatures, — to  invest  them  with 
fair  forms  and  inflame  them  with  mighty 
passions, — we  can  only  understand  the  story 
of  the  human-hearted  things,  in  so  far  as  we 
ourselves  take  pleasure  in  the  perfectness  of 
visible  form,  or  can  sympathize,  by  an  effort 
of  imagination,  with  the  strange  people  who 
had  other  loves  than  that  of  wealth,  and 
other  interests  than  those  of  commerce. 
And,  lastly,  if  the  myth  complete  itself  to 
the  fulfilled  thoughts  of  the  nation,  by  at- 
tributing to  the  gods,  whom  they  have  carved 
out  of  their  fantasy,  continual  presence  with 
their  own  souls  ; and  their  every  effort  for 
good  is  finally  guided  by  the  sense  of  the 
companionship,  the  praise,  and  the  pure  will 
of  immortals,  we  shall  be  able  to  follow 


Ube  (Stueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


19 


them  into  this  last  circle  of  their  faith  only- 
in  the  degree  in  which  the  better  parts  of 
our  own  beings  have  been  also  stirred  by 
the  aspects  of  nature,  or  strengthened  by  her 
laws.  It  may  be  easy  to  prove  that  the  as- 
cent of  Apollo  in  his  chariot  signifies  noth- 
ing but  the  rising  of  the  sun.  But  what  does 
the  sunrise  itself  signify  to  us  } If  only  lan- 
guid return  to  frivolous  amusement,  or  fruit- 
less labor,  it  will,  indeed,  not  be  easy  for 
us  to  conceive  the  power,  over  a Greek,  of 
the  name  of  Apollo.  But  if,  for  us  also, 
as  for  the  Greek,  the  sunrise  means  daily 
restoration  to  the  sense  of  passionate  glad- 
ness and  of  perfect  life — if  it  means  the  thrill- 
ing of  new  strength  through  every  nerve, — 
the  shedding  over  us  of  a better  peace  than 
the  peace  of  night,  in  the  power  of  the 
dawn, — and  the  purging  of  evil  vision  and 
fear  by  the  baptism  of  its  dew  ; — if  the  sun 
itself  is  an  influence,  to  us  also,  of  spiritual 
good — and  becomes  thus  in  reality,  not  in 
imagination,  to  us  also,  a spiritual  power, — 
we  may  then  soon  over-pass  the  narrow 
limit  of  conception  which  kept  that  power 
impersonal,  and  rise  with  the  Greek  to  the 
thought  of  an  angel  who  rejoiced  as  a strong 


20  XTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 

man  to  run  his  course,  whose  voice  calling 
to  life  and  to  labor  rang  round  the  earth,  and 
whose  going  forth  was  to  the  ends  of  heaven. 

9.  The  time,  then,  at  which  I shall  take 
up  for  you,  as  well  as  I can  decipher  it,  the 
traditions  of  the  gods  of  Greece,  shall  be 
near  the  beginning  of  its  central  and  formed 
faith, — about  500  b.c., — a faith  of  which  the 
character  is  perfectly  represented  by  Pindar 
and  ^schylus,  who  are  both  of  them  out- 
spokenly religious,  and  entirely  sincere 
men  ; while  we  may  always  look  back  to 
find  the  less  developed  thought  of  the  pre- 
ceding epoch  given  by  Homer,  in  a more 
occult,  subtle,  half-instinctive,  and  involun- 
tary way. 

10.  Now,  at  that  culminating  period  of 
the  Greek  religion,  we  find,  under  one  gov- 
erning Lord  of  all  things,  four  subordinate 
elemental  forces,  and  four  spiritual  powers 
living  in  them  and  commanding  them.  The 
elements  are  of  course  the  well-known  four 
of  the  ancient  world, — the  earth,  the  waters, 
the  fire,  and  the  air ; and  the  living  powers 
of  them  are  Demeter,  the  Latin  Ceres  ; Posei- 
don, the  Latin  Neptune  ; Apollo,  who  has  re- 
tained always  his  Greek  name  ; and  Athena, 


^be  (Slueen  of  tbe 


21 


the  Latin  Minerva.  Each  of  these  are  de- 
scended from,  or  changed  from,  more  an- 
cient, and  therefore  more  mystic,  deities  of 
the  earth  and  heaven,  and  of  a finer  element 
of  aether  supposed  to  be  beyond  the 
heavens  ;*  but  at  this  time  we  find  the  four 
quite  definite,  both  in  their  kingdoms  and  in 
their  personalities.  They  are  the  rulers  of 
the  earth  that  we  tread  upon,  and  the  air  that 
we  breathe ; and  are  with  us  as  closely,  in 
their  vivid  humanity,  as  the  dust  that  they 
animate,  and  the  winds  that  they  bridle. 
I shall  briefly  define  for  you  the  range  of 
their  separate  dominions,  and  then  follow, 
as  far  as  we  have  time,  the  most  interest- 
ing of  the  legends  which  relate  to  the  queen 
of  the  air. 

II.  The  rule  of  the  first  spirit,  Demeter, 
•the  earth  mother,  is  over  the  earth,  first,  as 
the  origin  of  all  life, — the  dust  from  whence 
we  were  taken  ; secondly,  as  the  receiver  of 
all  things  back  at  last  into  silence — ^‘Dust 
thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shalt  thou  return.” 
And,  therefore,  as  the  most  tender  image  of 
this  appearing  and  fading  life,  in  the  birth 

* And  by  modem  science  now  also  asserted,  and  with 
probability  argued,  to  ^xist. 


22 


Ubc  (Slucen  of  tbe  Uiv. 


and  fall  of  flowers,  her  daughter  Proserpine 
plays  in  the  fields  of  Sicily,  and  thence  is 
torn  away  into  darkness,  and  becomes  the 
Queen  of  Fate — not  merely  of  death,  but  of 
the  gloom  which  closes  over  and  ends,  not 
beauty  only,  but  sin,  and  chiefly  of  sins  the 
sin  against  the  life  she  gave ; so  that  she  is,  in 
her  highest  power,  Persephone,  the  avenger 
and  purifier  of  blood — ‘‘The  voice  of  thy 
brother’s  blood  cries  to  me  out  of  the  ground.'' 
Then,  side  by  side  with  this  queen  of  the 
earth,  we  find  a demigod  of  agriculture  by 
the  plough — the  lord  of  grain,  or  of  the  thing 
ground  by  the  mill.  And  it  is  a singular 
proof  of  the  simplicity  of  Greek  character  at 
this  noble  time,  that  of  all  representations 
left  to  us  of  their  deities  by  their  art,  few 
are  so  frequent,  and  none  perhaps  so  beauti- 
ful, as  the  symbol  of  this  spirit  of  agricult- 
ure. 

12.  Then  the  dominant  spirit  of  the  ele- 
ment water  is  Neptune,  but  subordinate  to 
him  are  myriads  of  other  water  spirits,  of 
whom  Nereus  is  the  chief,  with  Palaemon, 
and  Leucothea,  the  “white  lady  ” of  the  sea ; 
and  Thetis,  and  nymphs  innumerable  who, 
like  her,  could  “suffer  a sea  change,”  while 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  2llr< 


33 


the  river  deities  had  each  independent  power, 
according  to  the  preciousness  of  their  streams 
to  the  cities  fed  by  them, — the  ‘'fountain 
Arethuse,  and  thou,  honored  flood,  smooth 
sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds/’ 
And,  spiritually,  this  king  of  the  waters  is 
lord  of  the  strength  and  daily  flow  of  human 
life— he  gives  it  material  force  and  victory  ; 
which  is  the  meaning  of  the  dedication  of 
the  hair,  as  the  sign  of  the  strength  of  life, 
to  the  fiver  or  the  native  land. 

13.  Demeter,  then,  over  the  earth,  and 
its  giving  and  receiving  of  life.  Neptune 
over  tne  waters,  and  the  flow  and  force  of 
life, — always  among  the  Greeks  typified  by 
the  horse,  which  was  to  them  as  a crested 
sea-wave,  animated  and  bridled.  Then  the 
third  element,  fire,  has  set  over  it  two 
powers  : over  earthly  fire,  the  assistant  of 
human  labor,  is  set  Hephaestus,  lord  of  all 
labor  in  which  is  the  flush  and  the  sweat  of 
the  brow  ; and  over  heavenly  fire,  the  source 
of  day;  is  set  Apollo,  the  spirit  of  all  kindling, 
purifying,  and  illuminating  intellectual  wis- 
dom, each  of  these  gods  having  also  their 
subordinate  or  associated  powers, — servant, 
or  sister,  or  companion  muse. 


*4 


?tbe  (Siueen  ot  tbe  Bit* 


14.  Then,  lastly,  we  come  to  the  myth 
which  is  to  be  our  subject  of  closer  inquiry, — • 
the  story  of  Athena  and  of  the  deities  subor- 
dinate to  her.  This  great  goddess,  the  Neith 
of  the  Egyptians,  the  Athena  or  Athenaia 
of  the  Greeks,  and,  with  broken  power,  half 
usurped  by  Mars,  the  Minerva  of  the  Latins, 
is,  physically,  the  queen  of  the  air ; having 
supreme  power  both  over  its  blessing  of 
calm,  and  wrath  of  storm  ; and,  spiritually, 
she  is  the  queen  of  the  breath  of  man,  first 
of  the  bodily  breathing  which  is  life  to  his 
blood,  and  strength  to  his  arm  in  battle; 
and  then  of  the  mental  breathing,  or  inspira- 
tion, which  is  his  moral  health  and  habitual 
wisdom  ; wisdom  of  conduct  and  of  the 
heart,  as  opposed  to  the  wisdom  of  imagina- 
tion and  the  brain  ; moral,  as  distinct  from 
intellectual ; inspired,  as  distinct  from  illu- 
minated. 

15.  By  a singular  and  fortunate,  though 
I believe  wholly  accidental,  coincidence, 
the  heart-virtue,  of  which  she  is  the  spirit, 
was  separated  by  the  ancients  into  four  divis- 
ions, which  have  since  obtained  acceptance 
from  all  men  as  rightly  discerned,  and  have 
received,  as  if  from  the  quarters  of  the  four 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Uiu 


25 


winds  of  which  Athena  is  the  natural  queen, 
the  name  of  “Cardinal’'  virtues:  namely, 
Prudence  (the  right  seeing,  and  foreseeing, 
of  events  through  darkness)  ; Justice  (the 
righteous  bestowal  of  favor  and  of  indigna- 
tion); Fortitude  (patience  under  trial  by  pain); 
and  Temperance  (patience  under  trial  by 
pleasure).  With  respect  to  these  four  virtues, 
the  attributes  of  Athena  are  all  distinct.  In 
her  prudence,  or  sight  in  darkness,  she  is 
" ' Glaukopis,”  ‘ ' owl-eyed.  ” * In  her  j ustice, 
which  is  the  dominant  virtue,  she  wears  two 
robes,  one  of  light  and  one  of  darkness  ; the 
robe  of  light,  saffron  color,  or  the  color  of 
the  daybreak,  falls  to  her  feet,  covering  her 
wholly  with  favor  and  love, — the  calm  of 
the  sky  in  blessing  ; it  is  embroidered  along 
its  edge  with  her  victory  over  the  giants  (the 
troublous  powers  of  the  earth),  and  the  like- 
ness of  it  was  woven  yearly  by  the  Athenian 
maidens  and  carried  to  the  temple  of  their 
own  Athena,  not  to  the  Parthenon,  that  was 
the  temple  of  all  the  world’s  Athena, — but 
this  they  carried  to  the  temple  of  their  own 
only  one  who  loved  them,  and  stayed  with 

* There  are  many  other  meanings  in  the  epithet ; see, 
farther  \>n,  § 91,  pp.  133,  134. 


26 


^be  (auecn  of  tbc 


them  always.  Then  her  robe  of  indignatiom 
is  worn  on  her  breast  and  left  arm  only, 
fringed  with  fatal  serpents,  and  fastened 
with  Gorgonian  cold,  turning  men  to  stone ; 
physically,  the  lightning  and  the  hail  of 
chastisement  by  storm.  Then  in  her  forti- 
tude she  wears  the  crested  and  unstooping 
helmet ; * and  lastly,  in  her  temperance,  she 
is  the  queen  of  maidenhood — stainless  as 
the  air  of  heaven. 

1 6.  But  all  these  virtues  mass  themselves 
in  the  Greek  mind  into  the  two  main  ones, 
— of  Justice,  or  noble  passion,  and  Fortitude, 
or  noble  patience ; and  of  these,  the  chief 
powers  of  Athena,  the  Greeks  had  divinely 
written  for  them,  and  for  all  men  after  them, 
two  mighty  songs, — one,  of  the  Menis,f 
Mens,  passion,  or  zeal,  of  Athena,  breathed 
into  a mortal  whose  name  is  Ache  of  heart/' 
and  whose  short  life  is  only  the  incarnate 

* I am  compelled,  for  clearness’  sake,  to  mark  only 
one  meaning  at  a time.  Athena’s  helment  is  some- 
times a mask,  sometimes  a sign  of  anger,  sometimes  of 
the  highest  light  of  aether  ; but  I cannot  speak  of  all 
this  at  once. 

t This  first  word  of  the  Iliad,  Menis,  afterwards  passes 
into  the  Latin  Mens  ; is  the  root  of  the  Latin  name  for 
Athena,  “ Minerva,”  and  so  of  the  English  “ mind.” 


XLbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Bir* 


27 


brooding  and  burst  of  storm  ; and  the  other 
is  of  the  foresight  and  fortitude  of  Athena, 
maintained  by  her  in  the  heart  of  a mortal 
whose  name  is  given  to  him  from  a longer 
grief,  Odysseus,  the  full  of  sorrow,  the  much 
enduring,  and  the  long-suffering. 

17.  The  minor  expressions  by  the  Greeks 
in  word,  in  symbol,  and  in  religious  service, 
of  this  faith,  are  so  many  and  so  beautiful, 
that  I hope  some  day  to  gather  at  least  a few 
of  them  into  a separate  body  of  evidence 
respecting  the  power  of  Athena,  and  its  rela- 
tions to  the  ethical  conception  of  the  Ho- 
meric poems,  or,  rather,  to  their  ethical 
nature  ; for  they  are  not  conceived  didacti- 
cally, but  are  didactic  in  their  essence,  as  all 
good  art  is.  There  is  an  increasing  insensi- 
bility to  this  character,  and  even  an  open 
denial  of  it,  among  us  now  which  is  one  of 
the  most  curious  errors  of  modernism, — the 
peculiar  and  judicial  blindness  of  an  age 
which,  having  long  practised  art  and  poetry 
for  the  sake  of  pleasure  only,  has  become 
incapable  of  reading  their  language  when 
they  were  both  didactic ; and  also,  having 
been  itself  accustomed  to  a professedly 
didactic  teaching,  which  yet,  for  private 


28 


c:be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bfr* 


interests,  studiously  avoids  collision  with 
every  prevalent  vice  of  its  day  (and  especially 
with  avarice),  has  become  equally  dead  to 
the  intensely  ethical  conceptions  of  a race 
which  habitually  divided  all  men  into  two 
broad  classes  of  worthy  or  worthless, — good, 
and  good  for  nothing.  And  even  the  cele- 
brated passage  of  Horace  about  the  Iliad  is 
now  misread  or  disbelieved,  as  if  it  was  im- 
possible that  the  Iliad  could  be  instructive 
because  it  is  not  like  a sermon.  Horace 
does  not  say  that  it  is  like  a sermon,  and 
would  have  been  still  less  likely  to  say  so  if 
he  ever  had  had  the  advantage  of  hearing  a 
sermon.  have  been  reading  that  story 
of  Troy  again''  (thus  he  writes  to  a noble 
youth  of  Rome  whom  he  cared  for),  quietly 
at  Praeneste,  while  you  have  been  busy  at 
Rome  ; and  truly  I think  that  what  is  base 
and  what  is  noble,  and  what  useful  and  use- 
less, may  be  better  learned  from  that,  than 
from  all  Chrysippus'  and  Grantor's  talk  put 
together."*  Which  is  profoundly  true,  not 

* Note,  once  for  all,  that  unless  when  there  is  ques- 
tion about  some  particular  expression,  I never  translate 
literally,  but  give  the  real  force  of  what  is  said,  as  I 
best  can,  freely. 


ZTbe  (Slueen  ot  tbe  aft* 


29 


of  the  Iliad  only,  but  of  all  other  great  art 
whatsoever ; for  all  pieces  of  such  art  are 
didactic  in  the  purest  way,  indirectly  and 
occultly,  so  that,  first,  you  shall  only  be  bet- 
tered by  them  if  you  are  already  hard  at  work 
in  bettering  yourself;  and  when  you  are 
bettered  by  them,  it  shall  be  partly  with  a 
general  acceptance  of  their  influence,  so  con- 
stant and  subtile  that  you  shall  be  no  more 
conscious  of  it  than  of  the  healthy  digestion 
of  food  ; and  partly  by  a gift  of  unexpected 
truth,  which  you  shall  only  find  by  slow 
mining  for  it, — which  is  withheld  on  pur- 
pose, and  close-locked,  that  you  may  not 
get  it  till  you  have  forged  the  key  of  it  in  a 
a furnace  of  your  own  heating.  And  this 
withholding  of  their  meaning  is  continual, 
and  confessed,  in  the  great  poets.  Thus 
Pindar  says  of  himself:  ''There  is  many 
an  arrow  in  my  quiver,  full  of  speech  to  the 
wise,  but,  for  the  many,  they  need  inter- 
preters. ''  And  neither  Pindar,  nor  ^schy- 
lus,  nor  Hesiod,  nor  Homer,  nor  any  of  the 
greater  poets  or  teachers  of  any  nation  or 
time,  ever  spoke  but  with  intentional  reser' 
vation  ; nay,  beyond  this,  there  is  often  a 
meaning  which  they  themselves  cannot  in- 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  2Hr< 


terpert, — which  it  may  be  for  ages  long  after 
them  to  intrepert, — in  what  they  said,  so  far 
as  it  recorded  true  imaginative  vision.  For 
all  the  greatest  myths  have  been  seen  by 
the  men  who  tell  them,  involuntarily  and 
passively, — seen  by  them  with  as  great  dis- 
tinctness (and  in  some  respects,  though  not 
in  all,  under  conditions  as  far  beyond  the 
control  of  their  will)  as  a dream  sent  to  any 
of  us  by  night  when  we  dream  clearest ; and 
it  is  this  veracity  of  vision  that  could  not  be 
refused,  and  of  moral  that  could  not  be  fore- 
seen, which  in  modern  historical  inquiry  has 
been  left  wholly  out  of  account ; being  in- 
deed the  thing  which  no  merely  historical 
investigator  can  understand,  or  even  believe  ; 
for  it  belongs  exclusively  to  the  creative  or 
artistic  group  of  men,  and  can  only  be  inter- 
preted by  those  of  their  race,  who  them- 
selves in  some  measure  also  see  visions  and 
dream  dreams. 

So  that  you  may  obtain  a more  truthful  idea 
of  the  nature  of  Greek  religion  and  legend 
from  the  poems  of  Keats,  and  the  nearly  as 
beautiful,  and,  in  general  grasp  of  subject, 
far  more  powerful,  recent  work  of  Morris, 
than  from  frigid  scholarship,  however  exten- 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbc  2lfr* 


3* 


sive.  Not  that  the  poefs  impressions  or 
renderings  of  things  are  wholly  true,  but 
their  truth  is  vital,  not  formal.  They  are 
like  sketches  from  the  life  by  Reynolds  or 
Gainsborough,  which  may  be  demonstrably 
inaccurate  or  imaginary  in  many  traits,  and 
indistinct  in  others,  yet  will  be  in  the  deepest 
sense  like,  and  true ; while  the  work  of 
historical  analysis  is  too  often  weak  with 
loss,  through  the  very  labor  of  its  miniature 
touches,  or  useless  in  clumsy  and  vapid 
veracity  of  externals,  and  complacent  secu- 
rity of  having  done  all  that  is  required  for  the 
portrait,  when  it  has  measured  the  breadth 
of  the  forehead  and  the  length  of  the  nose. 

1 8.  The  first  of  requirements,  then,  for  the 
right  reading  of  myths,  is  the  understanding 
of  the  nature  of  all  true  vision  by  noble  per- 
sons ; namely,  that  it  is  founded  on  con- 
stant laws  common  to  all  human  nature  ; 
that  it  perceives,  however  darkly,  things 
which  are  for  all  ages  true  ; that  we  can  only 
understand  it  so  far  as  we  have  some  per- 
ception of  the  same  truth  ; and  that  its  ful- 
ness is  developed  and  manifested  more  and 
more  by  the  reverberation  of  it  from  minds 
of  the  same  mirror-temper,  in  succeeding 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbc  :air* 


52 

ages.  You  will  understand  Homer  bette. 
by  seeing  his  reflection  in  Dante,  as  you 
may  trace  new  forms  and  softer  colors  in  a 
hillside,  redoubled  by  a lake. 

I shall  be  able  partly  to  show  you,  even 
to-night,  how  much,  in  the  Homeric  vision 
of  Athena,  has  been  made  clearer  by  the 
advance  of  time,  being  thus  essentially  and 
eternally  true  ; but  I must  in  the  outset  indi- 
cate the  relation  to  that  central  thought  of 
the  imagery  of  the  inferior  deities  of  storm. 

19.  And  first  I will  take  the  myth  of  ^olus 
(the  '‘sage  Hippotades ''  of  Milton),  as  it  is 
delivered  pure  by  Homer  from  the  early 
times. 

Why  do  you  suppose  Milton  calls  him 
"sage^'.f^  One  does  not  usually  think  of 
the  winds  as  very  thoughtful  or  deliberate 
powers.  But  hear  Homer  : "Then  we  came 
to  the  ^olian  island,  and  there  dwelt  -^olus 
Hippotades,  dear  to  the  deathless  gods ; 
there  he  dwelt  in  a floating  island,  and  round 
it  was  a wall  of  brass  that  could  not  be 
broken  ; and  the  smooth  rock  of  it  ran  up 
sheer.  To  whom  twelve  children  were  born 
in  the  sacred  chambers, — six  daughters  and 
Ssix  strong  sons  ; and  they  dwell  forever  witV 


XLbc  (Siueen  of  tbe  Bin 


33 


their  beloved  father  and  their  mother,  strict 
in  duty  ; and  with  them  are  laid  up  a 
thousand  benefits ; and  the  misty  house 
around  them  rings  with  fluting  all  the  day 
long.”  Now,  you  are  to  note  first,  in  this 
description,  the  wall  of  brass  and  the 
sheer  rock.  You  will  find,  throughout  the 
fables  of  the  tempest-group,  that  the  brazen 
wall  and  precipice  (occurring  in  another 
myth  as  the  brazen  tower  of  Danae)  are  al- 
ways connected  with  the  idea  of  the  tower- 
ing cloud  lighted  by  the  sun,  here  truly  de- 
scribed as  a floating  island.  Secondly,  you 
hear  that  all  treasures  were  laid  up  in  them  ; 
therefore,  you  know  this  ^olus  is  lord  of  the 
beneficent  winds  (^^he  bringeth  the  wind 
out  of  his  treasuries  ”)  ; and  presently  after- 
wards Homer  calls  him  the  ''steward”  of 
the  winds,  the  master  of  the  store-house  of 
them.  And  this  idea  of  gifts  and  precious- 
ness in  the  winds  of  heaven  is  carried  out  in 
the  well-known  sequel  of  the  fable  : ^olus 
gives  them  to  Ulysses,  all  but  one,  bound  in 
leathern  bags,  with  a glittering  cord  of  sil- 
ver ; and  so  like  bags  of  treasure  that'  the 
sailors  think  they  are  so,  and  open  them  to 
see.  And  when  Ulysses  is  thus  driven  back 
3 


34 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  air* 


to  T^^olus,  and  prays  him  again  to  help  him, 
note  the  deliberate  words  of  the  king's  re- 
fusal,— ^^Did  I not,"  he  says,  send  thee  on 
thy  way  heartily,  that  thou  mightest  reach 
thy  country,  thy  home,  and  whatever  is 
dear  to  thee?  It  is  not  lawful  for  me  again 
to  send  forth  favorably  on  his  journey  a man 
hated  by  the  happy  gods."  This  idea  of  the 
beneficence  of  ^olus  remains  to  the  latest 
times,  though  Virgil,  by  adopting  the  vul- 
gar change  of  the  cloud  island  into  Lipari, 
has  lost  it  a little  ; but  even  when  it  is  final- 
ly explained  away  by  Diodorus,  ^olus  is 
still  a kind-hearted  monarch,  who  lived  on 
the  coast  of  Sorrento,  invented  the  use  of 
sails,  and  established  a system  of  storm 
signals. 

20.  Another  beneficent  storm.-power,  Bo- 
reas, occupies  an  important  place  in  early 
legend,  and  a singularly  principal  one  in 
art ; and  I wish  I could  read  to  you  a pas- 
sage of  Plato  about  the  legend  of  Boreas  and 
Oreithyia,*  and  the  breeze  and  shade  of  the 
Ilissus — notwithstanding  its  severe  reflection 

* Translated  by  Max  ttiiller  in  the  opening  of  his 
essay  on  “ Comparative  Mythology.” — Chip^  from  a 
Ge^'inan  Workshop,  vd»  . h 


tTbe  0iueen  of  tbe 


35 


upon  persons  who  waste  their  time  on  myth- 
ological studies  ; but  I must  go  on  at  once 
to  the  fable  with  which  you  are  all  generally 
familiar,  that  of  the  Harpies. 

This  is  always  connected  with  that  of 
Boreas  or  the  north  wind,  because  the  two 
sons  of  Boreas  are  enemies  of  the  Harpies, 
and  drive  them  away  into  frantic  flight. 
The  myth  in  its  first  literal  form  means  only 
the  battle  between  the  fair  north  wind  and 
the  foul  south  one  : the  two  Harpies, 
‘‘ Stormswift ''  and  ' ‘ Swiftfoot, ''  are  the  sis- 
ters of  the  rainbow  ; that  is  to  say,  they  are 
the  broken  drifts  of  the  showery  south  wind, 
and  the  clear  north  wind  drives  them  back  ; 
but  they  quickly  take  a deeper  and  more 
malignant  significance.  Y ou  know  the  short, 
violent,  spiral  gusts  that  lift  the  dust  before 
coming  rain  : the  Harpies  get  identified  first 
with  these,  and  then  with  more  violent 
whirlwinds,  and  so  they  are  called  ^‘Har- 
pies,’' ‘‘the  Snatchers, and  are  thought  of 
as  entirely  destructive  : their  manner  of 
destroying  being  twofold, — by  snatching 
away,  and  by  defiling  and  polluting.  This 
is  a month  in  which  you  may  really  see  a 
small  Harpy  at  her  work  almost  whenever 


36  XTbe  (Sluecn  of  tbe 

you  choose.  The  first  time  that  there  is 
threatening  of  rain  after  two  or  three  days 
of  fine  weather,  leave  your  window  well 
open  to  the  street,  and  some  books  or  papers 
on  the  table  ; and  if  you  do  not,  in  a little 
while,  know  what  the  Harpies  mean,  and 
how  they  snatch,  and  how  they  defile.  Til 
give  up  my  Greek  myths. 

21.  That  is  the  physical  meaning.  It  is 
now  easy  to  find  the  mental  one.  You  must 
all  have  felt  the  expression  of  ignoble  anger 
in  those  fitful  gusts  of  sudden  storm.  There 
is  a sense  of  provocation  and  apparent  bit- 
terness of  purpose  in  their  thin  and  senseless 
fury,  wholly  different  from  the  nobler  anger 
of  the  greater  tempests.  Also,  they  seem 
useless  and  unnatural,  and  the  Greek  thinks 
of  them  always  as  vile  in  malice,  and  op- 
posed, therefore,  to  the  Sons  of  Boreas,  who 
are  kindly  winds,  that  fill  sails,  and  wave 
harvests, — full  of  bracing  health  and  happy 
impulses.  From  this  lower  and  merely 
malicious  temper,  the  Harpies  rise  into  a 
greater  terror,  always  associated  with  their 
whirling  motion,  which  is  indeed  indicative 
of  the  most  destructive  winds  ; and  they  are 
thus  related  to  the  nobler  tempests,  as 


?Ebc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Sir* 


37 


Charybdis  to  the  sea ; they  are  devouring 
and  desolating,  merciless,  making  all  things 
disappear  that  come  in  their  grasp  ; and  so, 
spiritually,  they  are  the  gusts  of  vexatious, 
fretful,  lawless  passion,  vain  and  overshad- 
owing, discontented  and  lamenting,  meagre 
and  insane, — spirits  of  wasted  energy,  and 
wandering  disease,  and  unappeased  famine, 
and  unsatisfied  hope.  So  you  have,  on  the 
one  side,  the  winds  of  prosperity  and  health, 
on  the  other,  of  ruin  and  sickness.  Under- 
stand that,  once,  deeply, — any  who  have 
ever  known  the  weariness  of  vain  desires,  the 
pitiful,  unconquerable,  coiling  and  recoiling 
and  self-involved  returns  of  some  sickening 
famine  and  thirst  of  heart, — and  you  will 
know  what  was  in  the  sound  of  the  Harpy 
Celaeno's  shriek  from  her  rock  ; and  why,  in 
the  seventh  circle  of  the  '‘Inferno,"'  the 
Harpies  make  their  nests  in  the  warped 
branches  of  the  trees  that  are  the  souls  of 
suicides. 

22.  Now  you  must  always  be  prepared  to 
read  Greek  legends  as  you  trace  threads 
through  figures  on  a ^Iken  damask  : the 
same  thread  runs  through  the  web,  but  it 
makes  part  of  different  figures.  Joined  with 


38  tXbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Blr* 

other  colors  you  hardly  recognize  it,  and  in 
different  lights  it  is  dark  or  light.  Thus  the 
Greek  fables  blend  and  cross  curiously  in 
different  directions,  till  they  knit  themselves 
into  an  arabesque  where  sometimes  you 
cannot  tell  black  from  purple,  nor  blue  from 
emerald — they  being  all  the  truer  for  this, 
because  the  truths  of  emotion  they  represent 
are  interwoven  in  the  same  way,  but  all  the 
more  difficult  to  read,  and  to  explain  in  any 
order.  Thus  the  Harpies,  as  they  represent 
vain  desire,  are  connected  with  the  Sirens, 
who  are  the  spirits  of  constant  desire ; sq 
that  it  is  difficult  sometimes  in  early  art  to 
know  which  are  meant,  both  being  repre^ 
sented  alike  as  birds  with  women's  heads  ; 
only  the  Sirens  are  the  great  constant  desires 
• — the  infinite  sicknesses  of  heart — which, 
rightly  placed,  give  life,  and  wrongly  placed, 
waste  it  away  ; so  that  there  are  two  groups 
of  Sirens,  one  noble  and  saving,  as  the  other 
is  fatal.  But  there  are  no  animating  or  saving 
Harpies ; their  nature  is  always  vexing  and 
full  of  weariness,  and  thus  they  are  curiously 
connected  with  the*  whole  group  of  legends 
about  Tantalus. 

33.  We  all  know  what  it  is  to  be  tanta- 


^Tbe  (aueen  ot  tbe 


39 


lized  ; but  we  do  not  often  think  of  asking 
what  Tantalus  was  tantalized  for — what  he 
had  done,  to  be  forever  kept  hungry  in  sight 
of  food.  Well ; he  had  not  been  con- 
demned to  this  merely  for  being  a glutton. 
By  Dante  the  same  punishment  is  assigned 
to  simple  gluttony,  to  purge  it  away  ; but  the 
sins  of  Tantalus  were  of  a much  wider  and 
more  mysterious  kind.  There  are  four  great 
sins  attributed  to  him  : one,  stealing  the  food 
of  the  gods  to  give  it  to  men  ; another,  sacri- 
ficing his  son  to  feed  the  gods  themselves  (it 
may  remind  you  for  a moment  of  what  I was 
telling  you  of  the  earthly  character  of  Deme- 
ter, that,  while  the  other  gods  all  refuse,  she, 
dreaming  about  her  lost  daughter,  eats  part 
of  the  shoulder  of  Pelops  before  she  knows 
what  she  is  doing)  ; another  sin  is,  telling 
the  secrets  of  the  gods  ; and  only  the  fourth 
— stealing  the  golden  dog  of  Pandareos — is 
connected  with  gluttony.  The  special  sense 
of  this  myth  is  marked  by  Pandareos  receiv- 
ing the  happy  privilege  of  never  being 
troubled  with  indigestion  ; the  dog,  in  gen- 
eral, however,  mythically  represents  all 
utterly  senseless  and  carnal  desires  ; mainly 
that  of  gluttony ; and  in  the  mythic  sense 


40 


^Tbe  (aueen  of  tbe  ait 


of  Hades — that  is  to  say,  so  far  as  it  repre- 
sents spiritual  ruin  in  this  life,  and  not  a 
literal  hell — the  dog  Cerberus  as  its  gate- 
keeper— with  this  special  marking  of  his 
character  of  sensual  passion,  that  he  fawns 
on  all  those  who  descend,  but  rages  against 
all  who  would  return  (the  Virgilian  '^facilis 
descensus  ” being  a later  recognition  of  this 
mythic  character  of  Hades)  ; the  last  labor 
of  Hercules  is  the  dragging  him  up  to  the 
light ; and  in  some  sort  he  represents  the 
voracity  or  devouring  of  Hades  itself  ; and 
the  mediaeval  representation  of  the  mouth  of 
hell  perpetuates  the  same  thought.  Then, 
also,  the  power  of  evil  passion  is  partly 
associated  with  the  red  and  scorching  light 
of  Sirius,  as  opposed  to  the  pure  light  of  the 
sun  : he  is  the  dog-star  of  ruin  ; and  hence 
the  continual  Homeric  dwelling  upon  him, 
and  comparison  of  the  flame  of  anger  to  his 
swarthy  light ; only,  in  his  scorching,  it  is 
thirst,  not  hunger,  over  which  he  rules 
physically  ; so  that  the  fable  of  Icarius,  his 
first  master,  corresponds,  among  the  Greeks, 
to'the  legend  of  the  drunkenness  of  Noah. 

The  story  of  Actaeon,  the  raging  death  of 
Hecuba,  and  the  tradition  of  the  white  dog 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  afr< 


41 


which  ate  part  of  Hercules'  first  sacrifice, 
and  so  gave  name  to  the  Cynosarges,  are  all 
various  phases  of  the  some  thought, — the 
Greek  notion  of  the  dog  being  throughout 
confused  between  its  serviceable  fidelity,  its 
watchfulness,  its  foul  voracity,  shameless- 
ness, and  deadly  madness,  while  with  the 
curious  reversal  or  recoil  of  the  meaning 
which  attaches  itself  to  nearly  every  great 
myth, — and  which  we  shall  presently  see 
notably  exemplified  in  the  relations  of  the 
serpent  to  Athena, — the  dog  becomes  in 
philosophy  a type  of  severity  and  absti- 
nence. 

24.  It  would  carry  us  too  far  aside  were  I 
to  tell  you  the  story  of  Pandareos'  dog — or 
rather  of  Jupiter’s  dog,  for  Pandareos  was 
its  guardian  only  ; all  that  bears  on  our 
present  purpose  is  that  the  guardian  of  this 
golden  dog  had  three  daughters,  one  of 
whom  was  subject  to  the  power  of  the  Sirens, 
and  is  turned  into  the  nightingale ; and  the 
other  two  were  subject  to  the  power  of  the 
Harpies,  and  this  was  what  happened  to 
them  : They  were  very  beautiful,  and  they 
were  beloved  by  the  gods  in  their  youth, 
and  all  the  great  goddesses  were  anxious  to 


42 


Zbc  (auecn  ot  tbe  mu 


bring  them  up  rightly.  Of  all  types  of 
young  ladies'  education,  there  is  nothing  so 
splendid  as  that  of  the  younger  daughters 
of  Pandareos.  They  have  literally  the  four 
greatest  goddesses  for  their  governesses. 
Athena  teaches  them  domestic  accomplish- 
ments, how  to  weave,  and  sew,  and  the 
like ; Artemis  teaches  them  to  hold  them- 
selves up  straight ; Hera,  how  to  behave 
proudly  and  oppressively  to  company  ; and 
Aphrodite,  delightful  governess,  feeds  them 
with  cakes  and  honey  all  day  long.  All  goes 
well,  until  just  the  time  when  they  are  going 
to  be  brought  out ; then  there  is  a great  dis- 
pute whom  they  are  to  marry,  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  they  are  carried  off  by  the  Har- 
pies, given  by  them  to  be  slaves  to  the  Furies, 
and  never  seen  more.  But  of  course  there 
is  nothing  in  Greek  myths ; and  one  never 
heard  of  such  things  as  vain  desires,  and 
empty  hopes,  and  clouded  passions,  defiling 
and  snatching  away  the  souls  of  maidens, 
in  a London  season. 

I have  no  time  to  trace  for  you  any  more 
harpy  legends,  though  they  are  full  of  the 
most  curious  interest  ; but  I may  confirm 
for  you  my  interpretation  of  this  one,  and 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* . 


43 


prove  its  importance  in  the  Greek  mind,  by 
noting  that  Polygnotus  painted  these  maid- 
ens, in  his  great  religious  series  of  paintings 
at  Delphi,  crowned  with  flowers,  and  play- 
ing at  dice  ; and  that  Penelope  remembers 
them  in  her  last  fit  of  despair,  just  before 
the  return  of  Ulysses,  and  prays  bitterly 
that  she  may  be  snatched  away  at  once  into 
nothingness  by  the  Harpies,  like  Pandareos" 
daughters,  rather  than  be  tormented  longer 
by  her  deferred  hope,  and  anguish  of  disap- 
pointed love. 

25.  I have  hitherto  spoken  only  of  deities 
of  the  winds.  We  pass  now  to  a far  more 
important  group,  the  deities  of  cloud.  Both 
of  these  are  subordinate  to  the  ruling  power 
of  the  air,  as  the  demigods  of  the  fountains 
and  minor  seas  are  to  the  great  deep  ; but, 
as  the  cloud-firmament  detaches  itself  more 
from  the  air,  and  has  a wider  range  of  minis- 
try than  the  minor  streams  and  seas,^  the 
highest  cloud  deity,  Hermes,  has  a rank 
more  equal  with  Athena  than  Nereus  or 
Proteus  with  Neptune ; and  there  is  greater 
difficulty  in  tracing  his  character,  because 
his  physical  dominion  over  the  clouds  can, 
of  course,  be  asserted  only  where  clouds  are; 


44 


Zbc  (aucen  of  tbe 


and,  therefore,  scarcely  at  all  in  Egypt ; * so 
that  the  changes  which  Hermes  undergoes 
in  becoming  a Greek  from  an  Egyptian  and 
Phoenician  god,  are  greater  than  in  any  other 
case  of  adopted  tradition.  In  Egypt  Hermes 
is  a deity  of  historical  record,  and  a conduc- 
tor of  the  dead  to  judgment ; the  Greeks 
take  away  much  of  this  historical  function, 
assigning  it  to  the  Muses  ; but,  in  investing 
him  with  the  physical  power  over  clouds, 
they  give  him  that  which  the  Muses  disdain, 
— the  power  of  concealment  and  of  theft. 
The  snatching  away  by  the  Harpies  is  with 
brute  force;  but  the  snatching  away  by  the 
clouds  is  connected  with  the  thought  of  hid- 
ing, and  of  making  things  seem  to  be  what 
they  are  not ; so  that  Hermes  is  the  god  of 
lying,  as  he  is  of  mist  ; and  yet  with  this 

* I believe  that  the  conclusions  of  recent  scholarship 
are  generally  opposed  to  the  Herodotean  ideas  of  any 
direct  acceptance  by  the  Greeks  of  Egyptian  myths ; 
and  very  certainly,  Greek  art  is  developed  by  giving  the 
veracity  and  simplicity  of  real  life  to  Eastern  savage 
grotesque ; and  not  by  softening  the  severity  of  pure 
Egyptian  design.  But  it  is  of  no  consequence  whether 
one  conception  was,  or  was  not,  in  this  case,  derived 
from  the  other;  my  object  is  only  to  mark  the  essen- 
tial differences  between  them. 


Cbe  (Siueen  of  tbc  Bit. 


45 


ignoble  function  of  making  things  vanish 
and  disappear  is  connected  the  remnant  of 
his  grand  Egyptian  authority  of  leading 
away  souls  in  the  cloud  of  death  (the  actual 
dimness  of  sight  caused  by  mortal  wounds 
physically  suggesting  the  darkness  and  de- 
scent of  clouds,  and  continually  being  so 
described  in  the  Iliad)  ; while  the  sense  of 
the  need  of  guidance  on  the  untrodden  road 
follows  necessarily.  You  cannot  but  re- 
member how  this  thought  of  cloud  guidance, 
and  cloud  receiving  of  souls  at  death,  has 
been  elsewhere  ratified. 

26.  Without  following  that  higher  clue,  I 
will  pass  to  the  lovely  group  of  myths  con- 
nected with  the  birth  of  Hermes  on  the 
Greek  mountains.  Y ou  know  that  the  valley 
of  Sparta  is  one  of  the  noblest  mountain 
ravines  in  the  world,  and  that  the  western 
flank  of  it  is  formed  by  an  unbroken  chain 
of  crags,  forty  miles  long,  rising,  opposite 
Sparta,  to  a height  of  8,000  feet,  and  known 
as  the  chain  of  Taygetus.  Now,  the  nymph 
from  whom  that  mountain  ridge  is  named 
was  the  mother  of  Lacedaemon  ; therefore 
the  mythic  ancestress  of  the  Spartan  race. 
She  is  the  nymph  Taygeta,  and  one  of  the 


46  tTbe  (Siueen  of  tbe  Bit* 

seven  stars  of  spring  ; one  of  those  Pleiades 
of  whom  is  the  question  to  Job,  — ‘'Canst 
thou  bind  the  sweet  influences  of  Pleiades, 
or  loose  the  bands  of  Orion  ? ''  ''The  sweet 
influences  of  Pleiades,''  of  the  stars  of  spring, 
— nowhere  sweeter  than  among  the  pine- 
clad  slopes  of  the  hills  of  Sparta  and  Arcadia, 
when  the  snows  of  their  higher  summits, 
beneath  the  sunshine  of  April,  fell  into  fount- 
ains, and  rose  into  clouds ; and  in  every 
ravine  was  a newly  awakened  voice  of 
waters, — soft  increase  of  whisper  among  its 
sacred  stones  ; and  on  every  crag  its  form- 
ing and  fading  veil  of  radiant  cloud  ; temple 
above  temple,  of  the  divine  marble  that  no 
tool  can  pollute,  nor  ruin  undermine.  And, 
therefore,  beyond  this  central  valley,  this 
great  Greek  vase  of  Arcadia,  on  the  hol- 
low'' mountain,  Cyllene,  or  " pregnant" 
mountain,  called  also  " cold,"  because  there 
the  vapors  rest,*  and  born  of  the  eldest  of 
those  stars  of  spring,  that  Maia,  from  whom 
your  own  month  of  May  has  its  name,  bring- 

* On  the  altar  of  Hermes  on  its  summit,  as  on  that 
of  the  Lacinian  Hera,  no  wind  ever  stirred  the  ashes. 
By  those  altars,  the  Gods  of  Heaven  were  appeased, 
and  all  their  storms  at  rest. 


XTbe  (Slueen  ot  tbe  Bit.  47 

ing  to  you,  in  the  green  of  her  garlands,  and 
the  white  of  her  hawthorn,  the  unrecognized 
symbols  of  the  pastures  and  the  wreathed 
snows  of  Arcadia,  where  long  ago  she  was 
queen  of  stars  : there,  first  cradled  and 
wrapt  in  swaddling-clothes  ; then  raised,  in, 
a moment  of  surprise,  into  his  wandering 
power, — is  born  the  shepherd  of  the  clouds, 
winged-footed  and  deceiving, — blinding  the 
eyes  of  Argus, — escaping  from  the  grasp  of 
Apollo — restless  messenger  between  the 
highest  sky  and  topmost  earth — ''the  herald 
Mercury,  new  lighted  on  a heaven-kissing 
hill” 

27.  Now,  it  will  be  wholly  impossible,  at 
present,  to  trace  for  you  any  of  the  minor 
Greek  expressions  of  this  thought,  excepi 
only  that  Mercury,  as  the  cloud  shepherd,  is 
especially  called  Eriophoros,  the  wool- 
bearer.  You  will  recollect  the  name  from 
the  common  woolly  rush  " eriophorum '' 
which  has  a cloud  of  silky  seed  ; and  note 
also  that  he  wears  distinctively  the  flap  cap, 
petasos,  named  from  a word  meaning  "to 
expand ; ''  which  shaded  from  the  sun,  and 
is  worn  on  journeys.  You  have  the  epithet 
of  mountains  ' ' cloud-capped  as  an  estab- 


48 


Ube  ®ueen  of  tbe  %it. 


lished  form  with  every  poet,  and  the  Mont 
Pilate  of  Lucerne  is  named  from  a Latin 
word  signifying  specially  a cap  ; but 

Mercury  has,  besides,  a general  Homeric 
epithet,  curiously  and  intensely  concentrated 
in  meaning,  ''the  profitable  or  serviceable 
by  wool,”*  that  is  to  say,  by  shepherd 
wealth  ; hence,  "pecuniarily,”  rich  or  serv- 
iceable, and  so  he  passes  at  last  into  a 
general  mercantile  deity  ; while  yet  the  cloud 
sense  of  the  wool  is  retained  by  Homer  al- 
ways, so  that  he  gives  him  this  epithet  when 
it  would  otherwise  have  been  quite  meaning- 
less (in  Iliad,  xxiv.  44o),  when  he  drives 
Priam's  chariot,  and  breathes  force  into  his 
horses,  precisely  as  we  shall  find  Athena 
drive  Diomed  ; and  yet  the  serviceable  and 
profitable  sense — and  something  also  of  gen- 
tle and  soothing  character  in  the  mere  wool- 
softness,  as  used  for  dress,  and  religious  rites 
— is  retained  also  in  the  epithet,  and  thus  the 

* I am  convinced  that  the  ipi  in  ipioTjpLos  is  not  in- 
lensitive,  but  retained  from  epLov ; but  even  if  I am 
wrong  in  thinking  this,  the  mistake  is  of  no  conse- 
quence with  respect  to  the  general  force  of  the  term  as 
meaning  the  projitablness  of  Hermes.  Athena’s  ep* 
thet  of  dy€\€ia  has  a parallel  significance. 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe 


49 

gentle  and  serviceable  Hermes  is  opposed  to 
the  deceitful  one. 

28.  In  connection  with  this  driving  of 
Priam's  chariot,  remember  that  as  Autolycus 
is  the  son  of  Hermes  the  Deceiver,  Myrtilus 
(the  Auriga  of  the  Stars)  is  the  son  of  Her- 
mes the  Guide.  The  name  Hermes  itself 
means  impulse ; and  he  is  especially  the 
shepherd  of  the  flocks  of  the  sky,  in  driving, 
or  guiding,  or  stealing  them ; and  yet  his 
great  name,  Argeiphontes,  not  only — as  in 
different  passages  of  the  olden  poets — means 
‘‘Shining  White,"  which  is  said  of  him  as 
being  himself  the  silver  cloud  lighted  by  the 
sun  ; but  “ Argus-Killer,"  the^’killer  of  bright- 
ness, which  is  said  of  him  as  he  veils  the 
sky,  and  especially  the  stars,  which  are 
the  eyes  of  Argus  ; or,  literally,  eyes  of 
brightness,  which  Juno,  who  is,  with  Jupi- 
ter, part  of  the  type  of  highest  heaven, 
keeps  in  her  peacock's  train.  We  know 
that  this  interpretation  is  right,  from  a 
passage  in  which  Euripides  describes  the 
shield  of  Hippomedon,  which  bore  for  its 
sign,  “Argus  the  all-seeing,  covered  with 
eyes  ; open  towards  the  rising  of  the  stars, 
and  closed  towards  their  setting." 

4 


XTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bir* 


And  thus  Hermes  becomes  the  spirit  of 
the  movement  of  the  sky  or  firmament ; not 
merely  the  fast  flying-  of  the  transitory  cloud, 
but  the  great  motion  of  the  heavens  and  stars 
themselves.  Thus,  in  his  highest  power, 
he  corresponds  to  the  ‘'primo  mobile'^  of 
the  later  Italian  philosophy,  and,  in  his 
simplest,  is  the  guide  of  all  mysterious  and 
cloudy  movement,  and  of  all  successful 
subtleties.  Perhaps  the  prettiest  minor  rec- 
ognition of  his  character  is  when,  on  the 
night  foray  of  Ulysses  and  Diomed,  Ulysses 
wears  the  helmet  stolen  by  Autolycus,  the 
son  of  Herme^. 

29.  The  position  in  the  Greek  mind  of 
Hermes  as  the  lord  of  cloud  is,  however, 
more  mystic  and  ideal  than  that  of  any 
other  deity,  just  on  account  of  the  constant 
and  real  presence  of  the  cloud  itself  under 
different  forms,  giving  rise  to  all  kinds  of 
minor  fables.  The  play  of  the  Greek  imag- 
ination in  this  direction  is  so  wide  and  com- 
plex, that  I cannot  even  give  you  an  out- 
line of  its  range  in  my  present  limits.  There 
is  first  a great  series  of  storm-legends  con- 
nected with  the  family  of  the  historic  ^olus 
centralized  by  the  story  of  Athamas,  with 


^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


SI 

his  two  wives,  ''the  Cloud'’  and  the  "White 
Goddess,"  ending  in  that  of  Phrixus  and 
Helle,  and  of  the  golden  fleece  (which  is 
only  the  cloud-burden  of*  Hermes  Erio- 
phoros).  With  this,  there  is  the  fate  of  Sal- 
moneus,  and  the  destruction  of  Glaucus  by 
his  own  horses  ; all  these  minor  myths *of 
storm  concentrating  themselves  darkly  into 
the  legend  of  Bellerophon  and  the  Chimaera, 
in  which  there  is  an  under  story  about  the 
vain  subduing  of  passion  and  treachery,  and 
the  end  of  life  in  fading  melancholy, — which, 
I hope,  not  many  of  you  could  understand 
even  were  I to  show  it  you  (the  merely 
physical  meaning  of  the  Chimaera  is  the 
cloud  of  volcanic  lightning  connected  wholly 
with  earth-fire,  but  resembling  the  heavenly 
cloud  in  its  height  and  its  thunder).  Finally, 
in  the  ^olic  group,  there  is  the  legend  of 
Sisyphus,  which  I mean  to  work  out 
thoroughly  by  itself ; its  root  is  in  the  posi- 
tion of  Corinth  as  ruling  the  isthmus  and  the 
two  seas — the  Corinthean  Acropolis,  two 
thousand  feet  high,  being  the  centre  of  the 
crossing  currents  of  the  winds,  and  of  the 
commerce  of  Greece.  Therefore,  Athena, 
and  the  fountain-cloud  Pegasus,  are  more 


a OF  ILL  Liti 


Cbe  (Slucen  of  tbe 


52 

closely  connected  with  Corinth  than  even 
with  Athens  in  their  material,  though  not 
in  their  moral,  power ; and  Sisyphus  founds 
the  Isthmian  games  in  connection  with  a 
melancholy  story  about  the  sea  gods ; but 
but  he  himself  is  dvdpQvy  the  most 

‘‘gaining  ''  and  subtle  of  men  ; who  having 
the  key  of  the  Isthmus,  becomes  the 
type  of  transit,  transfer,  or  trade,  as  such  ; 
and  of  the  apparent  gain  from  it,  which  is 
not  gain  ; and  this  is  the  real  meaning  of 
his  punishment  in  hell — eternal  toil  and 
recoil  (the  modern  idol  of  capital  being, 
indeed,  the  stone  of  Sisyphus  with  a venge- 
ance, crushing  in  its  recoil).  But,  through- 
out, the  old  ideas  of  the  cloud  power  and 
cloud  feebleness, — the  deceit  of  its  hiding, — 
and  the  emptiness  of  its  banishing, — the 
Autolycus  enchantment  of  making  black 
seem  white, — and  the  disappointed  fury  of 
Ixion  (taking  shadow  for  power),  mingle 
in  the  moral  meaning  of  this  and  its  collat- 
eral legends  ; and  give  an  aspect,  at  last,  not 
only  of  foolish  cunning,  but  of  impiety  or  lit- 
eral “idolatry,'"  “imagination  worship,"  to 
the  dreams  of  avarice  and  injustice,  until  this 
notion  of  atheism  and  insolent  blindness  be- 


TTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  air< 


S3 


comes  principal ; and  the  Clouds''  of  Aristo- 
phanes, with  the  personified  '"just " and  ''un- 
just'' sayings  in  the  latter  part  of  the  play, 
foreshadow,  almost  feature  by  feature,  in  all 
that  they  were  written  to  mock  and  to  chas- 
tise, the  worst  elements  of  the  impious 
and  tumult  in  men's  thoughts, 
which  have  followed  on  their  avarice  in  the 
present  day,  making  them  alike  forsake  the 
laws  of  their  ancient  gods,  and  misappre- 
hended or  reject  the  true  words  of  their 
existing  teachers. 

30.  All  this  we  have  from  the  legends 
of  the  historic  i^lolus  only ; but,  besides 
these,  there  is  the  beautiful  story  of  Semele, 
the  mother  of  Bacchus.  She  is  the  cloud 
with  the  strength  of  the  vine  in  its  bosom, 
consumed  by  the  light  which  matures  the 
fruit ; the  melting  away  of  the  cloud  into  the 
clear  air  at  the  fringe  of  its  edges  being  ex- 
quisitely rendered  by  Pindar's  epithet  for 
her,  Semele,  "with  the  stretched-out  hair" 
ravv^deipa.)  Then  there  is  the  entire  tradi- 
tion of  the  Danaides,  and  of  the  tower  of 
Danae  and  golden  shower ; the  birth  of  Per- 
Beus  connecting  this  legend  with  that  of  the 
Gnrgons  and  Graiae,  who  are  the  true  clouds 


54 


Zbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe 


of  thunderous  and  ruinous  tempest.  I must, 
in  passing,  mark  for  you  that  the  form  of 
the  sword  or  sickle  of  Perseus,  with  which 
he  kills  Medusa,  is  another  image  of  the 
whirling  harpy  vortex,  and  belongs  espe- 
cially to  the  sword  of  destruction  or  annihi- 
lation ; whence  it  is  given  to  the  two  angels 
who  gather  for  destruction  the  evil  harvest 
and  evil  vintage  of  the  earth  (Rev.  xiv.  15). 
I will  collect  afterwards  and  complete  what 
I have  already  written  respecting  the  Peg- 
asean  and  Gorgonian  legends,  noting  here 
only  what  is  necessary  to  explain  the  cen- 
tral myth  of  Athena  herself,  who  represents 
the  ambient  air,  which  included  all  cloud, 
and  rain,  and  dew,  and  darkness,  and  peace, 
and  wrath  of  heaven.  Let  me  now  try  to 
give  you,  however  briefly,  some  distinct 
idea  of  the  several  agencies  of  this  great 
goddess. 

31.  L She  is  the  air  giving  life  and 
health  to  all  animals. 

II.  She  is  the  air  giving  vegetative 
power  to  the  earth. 

III.  She  is  the  air  giving  motion  to 
the  sea,  and  rendering  naviga- 
tion possible. 


^be  (aucen  of  tbe  %iu 


SS 


IV.  She  is  the  air  nourishing  artificial 
light,  torch  or  lamplight  ; as 
opposed  to  that  of  the  sun,  on 
one  hand,  and  of  consuming^ 
fire  on  the  other. 

V.  She  is  the  air  conveying  vibration 
of  sound. 

I will  give  you  instances  of  her  agency  in 
all  these  functions. 

32.  First,  and  chiefly,  she  is  air  as  the 
spirit  of  life,  giving  vitality  to  the  blood. 
Her  psychic  relation  to  the  vital  force  in 
matter  lies  deeper,  and  we  will  examine  it 
afterwards  ; but  a great  number  of  the  most 
interesting  passages  in  Homer  regard  her 
as  flying  over  the  earth  in  local  and  transi- 
tory strength,  simply  and.  merely  the  god- 
dess of  fresh  air. 

It  is-  curious  that  the  British  city  which 
has  somewhat  saucily  styled  itself  the  Mod- 
ern Athens  is  indeed  more  under  her  especial 
tutelage  and  favor  in  this  respect  than  perhaps 
any  other  town  in  the  island.  Athena  is  first 
simply  what  in  the  Modern  Athens  you  so 
practically  find  her,  the  breeze  of  the  mount- 

* Not  a scientific,  but  a very  practical  and  expressive 
distinction. 


XLbc  <Sluccn  ot  tbc  2ltr. 


56 

ain  and  the  sea ; and  wherever  she  comes, 
there  is  purification,  and  health,  and  power. 
The  sea-beach  round  this  isle  of  ours  is  the 
frieze  of  our  Parthenon  ; every  wave  that 
breaks  on  it  thunders  with  Athena’s  voice  ; 
nay,  whenever  you  throw  your  window 
wide  open  in  the  morning,  you  let  in  Athena, 
as  wisdom  and  fresh  air  at  the  same  instant ; 
and  whenever  you  draw  a pure,  long,  full 
breath  of  right  heaven,  you  take  Athena  into 
your  heart,  through  your  blood  ; and,  with 
the  blood,  into  the  thoughts  of  your  brain. 

Now,  this  giving  of  strength  by  the  air, 
observe,  is  mechanical  as  well  as  chemical. 
You  cannot  strike  a good  blow  but  with 
your  chest  full  ; and,  in  hand  to  hand  fight- 
ing, it  is  not  the  muscle  that  fails  first,  it  is 
the  breath  ; the  longest-breathed  will,  on 
the  average,  be  the  victor, — not  the  strong- 
est. Note  how  Shakspeare  always  leans  on 
this.  Of  Mortimer,  in  ''  changing  hardi- 
mentwith  great  Glendower”  : 

“ Three  times  they  breathed,  and  three  times  did 
they  drink, 

Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn’s  flood.” 

And  again.  Hotspur,  sending  challenge  to 
Prince  Harry : 


XTbe  (aueen  ot  tbe  Htr* 


57 


**  That  none  might  draw  short  breath  to-day 
But  I and  Harry  Monmouth.” 

^Lgain,  of  Hamlet,  before  he  receives  hia 
wound  : 

“ He’s  fat,  and  scant  of  breath.” 

Again,  Orlando  in  the  wrestling  : 

“ Yes  ; I beseech  your  grace 
l am  not  yet  well  breathed.” 

Now,  of  all  the  people  that  ever  lived,  the 
Greeks  knew  best  what  breath  meant,  both 
in  exercise  and  in  battle,  and  therefore  the 
queen  of  the  air  becomes  to  them  at  once  the 
queen  of  bodily  strength  in  war  ; not  mere 
brutal  muscular  strength, — that  belongs  to 
Ares, — but  the  strength  of  young  lives  passed 
in  pure  air  and  swift  exercise, — Camilla's 
virginal  force,  that  '‘flies  o'er  the  unbending 
corn,  and  skims  along  the  main." 

33.  Now  I will  rapidly  give  you  two  or 
three  instances  of  her  direct  agency  in  this 
function.  First,  when  she  wants  to  make 
Penelope  bright  and  beautiful ; and  to  do 
away  with  the  signs  of  her  waiting  and  her 
grief.  "Then  Athena  thought  of  another 
thing;  she  laid  her  into  deep  sleep,  and 


58  Jtbe  (Slueen  ot  tbe  Bln 

loosed  all  her  limbs,  and  made  her  taller, 
and  made  her  smoother,  and  fatter,  and 
whiter  than  sawn  ivory  ; and  breathed  am- 
brosial brightness  over  her  face  ; and  so  she 
1 ft  her  and  went  up  to  heaven/'  Fresh  air 
and  sound  sleep  at  night,  young  ladies  ! 
Y ou  see  you  may  have  Athena  for  lady's  maid 
whenever  you  choose.  Next,  hark  how  she 
gives  strength  to  Achilles  when  he  is  broken 
with  fasting  and  grief.  Jupiter  pities  him 
and  says  to  her,  ‘ Daughter  mine,  are  you 
forsaking  your  own  soldier,  and  don't  you 
care  for  Achilles  any  more  ? See  how^  hun- 
gry and  weak  he  is, — go  and  feed  him  with 
ambrosia.'  So  he  urged  the  eager  Athena  ; 
and  >he  leaped  dovrn  out  of  heaven  like  a 
harpy  falcon,  shrill-voiced ; and  she  poured 
nectar  and  ambrosia,  full  of  delight,  into 
the  breast  of  Achilles,  that  his  limbs  might 
not  fail  with  famine ; then  she  returned 
to  the  solid  dome  of  her  strong  father." 
And  then  comes  the  great  passage  about 
Achilles  arming — for  which  we  have  no  time. 
But  here  is  again  Athena  giving  strength  to 
the  whole  Greek  army.  She  came  as  a fal- 
con to  Achilles,  straight  at  him,  a sudden 
drift  of  breeze ; but  to  the  army  she  must 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe 


59 


come  widely,  she  sweeps  around  them  all. 
''As  when  Jupiter  spreads  the  purple  rain- 
bow over  heaven,  portending  battle  or  cold 
3torm,  so  Athena,  wrapping  herself  round 
with  a purple  cloud,  stooped  to  the  Greek 
soldiers,  and  raised  up  each  of  them.”  Note 
that  purple,  in  Homer’s  use  of  it,  nearly 
always  means  "fiery,”  "full  of  light.”  It 
is  the  light  of  the  rainbow,  not  the  color  of 
it,  which  Homer  means  you  to  think  of. 

34.  But  the  most  curious  passage  of  all, 
and  fullest  of  meaning,  is  when  she  gives 
strength  to  Menelaus,  that  he  may  stand  un- 
wearied against  Hector.  He  prays  to  her  : 
"And  blue-eyed  Athena  was  glad  that  he 
prayed  to  her,  first ; and  she  gave  him 
strength  in  his  shoulders,  and  in  his  limbs, 
and  she  gave  him  the  courage  ” — of  what 
animal,  do  you  suppose  ? Had  it  been  Nep- 
tune or  Mars,  they  would  have  given  him 
the  courage  of  a bull,  or  a lion  ; but  Athena 
gives  him  the  courage  of  the  most  fearless  in 
attack  of  all  creatures,  small  or  great,  and 
very  small  it  is,  but  wholly  incapable  of 
terror, — she  gives  him  the  courage  of  a fly. 

35.  Now  this  simile  of  Homer  s is  one  of 
the  best  instances  I can  give  you  ofthe'wajr 


6o 


Zbc  (aueen  ot  tbe  Bfr* 


in  which  great  writers  seize  truths  uncon« 
sciously  which  are  for  all  time.  It  is  only 
recent  science  which  has  completely  shown 
the  perfectness  of  this  minute  symbol  of  the 
power  of  Athena  ; proving  that  the  insects 
flight  and  breath  are  co-ordinated  ; that  its 
wings  are  actually  forcing-pumps,  of  which 
the  stroke  compels  the  thoracic  respiration  ; 
and  that  it  thus  breathes  and  flies  simultane- 
ously by  the  action  of  the  same  muscles,  so 
that  respiration  is  carried  on  most  vigorously 
during  flight,  ‘‘  while  the  air-vessels,  sup- 
plied by  many  pairs  of  lungs  instead  of  one, 
traverse  the  organs  of  flight  in  far  greater 
numbers  than  the  capillary  blood-vessels  of 
our  own  system,  and  give  enormous  and  un- 
tiring muscular  power,  a rapidity  of  action 
measured  by  thousands  of  strokes  in  the 
minute,  and  an  endurance,  by  miles  and 
hours  of  flight.  * 

Homer  could  not  have  known  this  ; neither 
that  the  buzzing  of  the  fly  was  produced,  as 
in  a wind  instrument,  by  a constant  current 
of  air  through  the  trachea.  But  he  had  seen, 
and,  doubtless,  meant  us  to  remember,  the 
marvellous  strength  and  swiftness  of  the 

* Ormerod  ; “ Natural  History  of  Wasps.” 


Zbc  (aucen  of  tbe  aiu 


6i 


insect’s  flight  (the  glance  of  the  swallow  it- 
self is  clumsy  and  slow  compared  to  the  dart- 
ing of  common  house-flies  at  play)  ; he  prob- 
ably attributed  its  murmur  to  the  wings,  but 
in  this  also  there  was  a type  of  what  we  shall 
presently  find  recognized  in  the  name 
Pallas, — the  vibratory  power  of  the  air  to 
convey  sound,  while,  as  a purifying  creature, 
the  fly  holds  its  place  beside  the  old  symbol 
of  Athena  in  Egypt,  the  vulture  ; and  as  a 
venomous  and  tormenting  creature  has  more 
than  the  strength  of  the  serpent  in  proportion 
to  its  size,  being  thus  entirely  representative 
of  the  influence  of  the  air  both  in  purification 
and  pestilence  ; and  its  courage  is  so  notable 
that,  strangely  enough,  forgetting  Homer's 
simile,  I happened  to  take  the  fly  for  an  ex- 
press-ion of  the  audacity  of  freedom  in  speak- 
ing of  quite  another  subject.*  Whether  it 
should  be  called  courage,  or  mere  mechan- 
ical instinct,  may  be  questioned,  but  assur- 
edly no  other  animal,  exposed  to  continual 
danger,  is  so  absolutely  without  sign  of  fear. 

36.  You  will,  perhaps,  have  still  patience 
to  hear  two  instances,  not  of  the  communi- 
cation as  strength,  but  of  the  personal  agency 


* See  farther  on,  § 148,  pp.  154-156. 


62 


Zbc  dueen  of  tbe  Bir* 


of  Athena  as  the  air.  When  she  comes 
down  to  help  Diomed  against  Ares,  she  does 
not  come  to  fight  instead  of  him,  but  she 
takes  his  charioteer’s  place. 

‘‘  She  snatched  the  reins,  she  lashed  with  all  her  force, 
And  full  on  Mars  impelled  the  foaming  horse.” 

Ares  is  the  first  to  cast  his  spear ; then — 
note  this — Pope  says  : 

“ Pallas  opposed  her  hand,  and  caused  to  glance, 
Far  from  the  car,  the  strong  immortal  lance.” 

She  does  not  oppose  her  hand  in  the  Greek 
— the  wind  could  not  meet  the  lance  straight 
— she  catches  it  in  her  hand,  and  throws  it 
off.  There  is  no  instance  in  which  a lance 
is  so  parried  by  a mortal  hand  in  all  the  Iliad, 
and  it  is  exactly  the  way  the  wind  Would 
parry  it,  catching  it,  and  turning  it  aside. 
If  there  are  any  good  rifleshots  here,  they 
know  something  about  Athena’s  parrying  ; 
and  in  old  times  the  English  masters  of 
feathered  artillery  knew  more  yet.  Compare 
also  the  turning  of  Hector’s  lance  from 
Achilles  : Iliad,  xx.  439. 

37.  The  last  instance  I will  give  you  is  as 
lovely  as  it  is  subtile.  Throughout  the  Iliad, 


tibe  (Jlueen  of  tbe  Sir. 


63 


Athena  is  herself  the  will  or  Menis  of  Achilles. 
If  he  is  to  be  calmed,  it  is  she  who  calms 
him  ; if  angered,  it  is  she  who  inflames  him. 
In  the  first  quarrel  with  Atreides,  when  he 
stands  at  pause,  with  the  great  sword  half 
drawn,  ‘‘  Athena  came  from  heaven,  and 
stood  behind  him  and  caught  him  by  the 
yellow  hair.’'  Another  god  would  have 
stayed  his  hand  upon  the  hilt,  but  Athena 
only  lifts  his  hair.  ‘^And  he  turned  and 
knew  her,  and  her  dreadful  eyes  shone  upon 
him.”  There  is  an  exquisite  tenderness  in 
this  laying  her  hand  upon  his  hair,  for  it  is 
the  talisman  of  his  life,  vowed  to  his  own 
Thessalian  river  if  he  ever  returned  to  its 
shore,  and  cast  upon  Patroclus’  pile,  so  or- 
daining that  there  should  be  no  return. 

38.  Secondly,  Athena  is  the  air  giving 
vegetative  impulse  to  the  earth.  She  is  the 
wind  and  the  rain,  and  yet  more  the  pure  air 
itself,  getting  at  the  earth  fresh  turned  by 
spade  or  plough',  and,  above  all,  feeding  the 
fresh  leaves  ; for  though  the  Greeks  knew 
nothing  about  carbonic  acid,  they  did  know 
that  trees  fed  on  the  air. 

Now,  note  first  in  this,  the  myth  of  the  air 
getting  at  ploughed  ground.  You  know  I 


tCbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Blr* 


64 

told  you  the  Lord  of  all  labor  by  which  man 
lived  was  Hephaestus ; therefore  Athena 
adopts  a cMld  of  his,  and  of  the  Earth, — 
Erich thonius, — literally,  ‘'the  tearer  up  of 
the  ground, ’'.who  is  the  head  (though  not  in 
direct  line)  of  the  kings  of  Attica  ; a|nd,  hav- 
ing adopted  him,  she  gives  him  to  be  brought 
up  by  the  three  nymphs  of  the  dew.  Of 
these,  Aglauros,  the  dweller  in  the  fields,  is 
the  envy  or  malice  of  the  earth  ; she  answers 
nearly  to  the  envy  of  Cain,  the  tiller  of  the 
ground,  against  his  shepherd  brother,  in  her 
own  envy  against  her  two  sisters,  Herse,  the 
cloud  dew,  who  is  the  beloved  of  the  shep- 
herd Mercury ; and  Pandrosos,  the  diffused 
dew,  or  dew  of  heaven.  Literally,  you  have 
in  this  myth  the  words  of  the  blessing  of 
Esau  : “ Thy  dwelling  shall  be  ofthe  fatness 
of  the  earth,  and  of  the  dew  of  heaven  from 
above.”  Aglauros  is  for  her  envy  turned 
into  a black  stone  ; and  hers  is  one  of  the 
voices — the  other  being  that  of  Cain — which 
haunts  the  circle  of  envy  in  the  Purgatory  : 

lo  sono  Aglauro,  chi  divenne  sasso.” 

But  to  her  two  sisters,  with  Erichthonius  (or 
the  hero  Erectheus),  is  built  the  most  sacred 
temple  of  Athena  in  Athens  ; the  temple  to 


tibe  (Slueen  of  tbe  air*  65 

their  own  dearest  Athena — to  her,  and  to  the 
dew  together ; so  that  it  was  divided  into 
two  parts  : one,  the  temple  of  Athena  of  the 
city,  and  the  other  that  of  the  dew.  And 
this  expression  of  her  power,  as  the  air  bring- 
ing the  dew  to  the  hill  pastures,  in  the  cen- 
tral temple  of  the  central  city  of  the  heathen, 
dominant  over  the  future  intellectual  world, 
is,  of  all  the  facts  connected  with  her  wor- 
ship as  the  spirit  of  life,  perhaps  the  most 
important.  I have  no  time  now  to  trace  for 
you  the  hundredth  part  of  the  different  ways 
in  which  it  bears  both  upon  natural  beauty, 
and  on  the  best  order  and  happiness  of  men's 
lives.  I hope  to  follow  out  some  of  these 
trains  of  thought  in  gathering  together  what 
I have  to  say  about  field  herbage  ; but  I 
must  say  briefly  here  that  the  great  sign,  to 
the  Greeks,  of  the  coming  of  spring  in  the 
pastures,  was  not,  as  with  us,  in  the  prim- 
rose, but  in  the  various  flowers  of  the  as- 
phodel tribe  (of  which  I will  give  you  some 
separate  account  presently)  ; therefore  it  is 
that  the  earth  answers  with  crocus  flame  to 
the  cloud  on  Ida  ; and  the  power  of  Athena 
in  eternal  life  is  written  by  the  light  of  the 
asphodel  on  the  Elysian  fields. 

5 


66 


ttbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Mit. 


But  further,  Athena  is  the  air,  not  only  to 
the  lilies  of  the  field,  but  to  the  leaves  of  the 
forest.  We  saw  before  the  reason  why 
Hermes  is  said  to  be  the  son  of  Maia,  the 
eldest  of  the  sister  stars  of  spring.  Those 
stars  are  called  not  only  Pleiades,  but  Ver- 
giliae,  from  a word  mingling  the  ideas  of  the 
turning  or  returning  of  springtime  with  the 
outpouring  of  rain.  The  mother  of  Vergil 
bearing  the  name  of  Maia,  Vergil  himself 
received  his  name  from  the  seven  stars  ; 
and  he,  in  forming  first  the  mind  of  Dante, 
and  through  him  that  of  Chaucer  (besides 
whatever  special  minor  infiuence  came  from 
the  Pastorals  and  Georgies)  became  the 
fountain-head  of  all  the  best  literary  power 
connected  with  the  love  of  vegetative 
nature  among  civilised  races  of  men. 
Take  the  fact  for  what  it  is  worth ; still  it 
is  a strange  seal  of  coincidence,  in  word 
and  in  reality,  upon  the  Greek  dream  of 
the  power  over  human  life,  and  its  purest 
thoughts,  in  the  stars  of  spring.  But  the 
first  syllable  of  the  name  of  Vergil  has  rela- 
tion also  to  another  group  of  words,  of  which 
the  English  ones,  virtue  and  virgin,  bring 
down  the  force  to  modern  days.  It  is  a 


tTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  67 

group  containing  mainly  the  idea  of  “ spring/' 
or  increase  of  life  in  vegetation — the  rising 
of  the  new  branch  of  the  tree  out  of  the  bud, 
and  of  the  new  leaf  out  of  the  ground.  It 
involves,  secondarily,  the  idea  of  greenness 
and  of  strength,  but  primarily,  that  of  living 
increase  of  a new  rod  from  a stock,  stem,  or 
root  (''There  shall  come  forth  a rod  out  of 
the  stem  of  Jesse")  ; and  chiefly  the  stem  of 
certain  plants — either  of  the  rose  tribe,  as  in 
the  budding  of  the  almond  rod  of  Aaron  ; or 
of  the  olive  tribe,  which  has  triple  signifi- 
cance in  this  symbolism,  from  the  use  of  its 
oil  for  sacred  anointing,  for  strength  in  the 
gymnasium,  and  for  light.  Hence,  in 
numberless  divided  and  reflected  ways,  it  is 
connected  with  the  power  of  Hercules  and 
Athena  : Hercules  plants  the  wild  olive,  for 
its  shade,  on  the  course  of  Olympia,  and  it 
thenceforward  gives  the  Olympic  crown  of 
consummate  honor  and  rest  ; while  the 
prize  at  the  Panathenaic  games  is  a vase  of 
its  oil  (meaning  encouragement  to  continu- 
ance of  effort)  ; and  from  the  paintings  on 
these  Panathenaic  vases  we  get  the  most 
precious  clue  to  the  entire  character  of 
Athena.  Then  to  express  its  propagation  by 


62; 


Quce^  of  tbe  Bin 


f'Aips,  tt'fies  frcm  which  the  oil  was  to  be 
^aken  were  called  ‘‘Moriai/’  trees  of  division 
^jbeing  all  descendants  of  the  sacred  one  in 
the  Erechtheum).  And  thus,  in  one  direc- 
tion, we  get  to  the  children  like  olive  plants 
round  about  thy  table and  the  olive  graft- 
ing of  St.  Paul ; while  the  use  of  the  oil  for 
anointing  gives  chief  name  to  the  rod  itself 
of  the  stem  of  Jesse,  and  to' all  those  who 
were  by  that  name  signed  for  his  disciples 
first  in  Antioch.  Remember,  further,  since 
that  name  was  first  given  the  influence  of 
the  symbol,  both  in  extreme  unction  and  in 
consecration  of  priests  and  kings  to  their 

divine  right ; and  think,  if  you  can  reach 
with  any  grasp  of  thought,  what  the  influence 
on  the  earth  has  been,  of  those  twisted 
branches  whose  leaves  give  gray  bloom  to 
the  hillsides  under  every  breeze  that  blows 
from  the  midland  sea.  But,  above  and  be- 
yond all,  think  how  strange  it  is  that  the 
chief  Agonia  of  humanity,  and  the  chief 
giving  of  strength  from  heaven  for  its  fulfil- 
ment, should  have  been  under  its  night 
shadow  in  Palestine. 

39.  Thirdly,  Athena  is  the  air  in  its  power 
over  the  sea. 


Cbe  fllueen  of  tbc  Bit*  ^ 

On  the  earliest  Panathenaic  vase  known — 
the  ‘‘  Burgon  ” vase  in  the  British  museum-^ 
Athena  has  a dolphin  on  her  shield.  The 
dolphin  has  two  principal  meanings  in  Greek 
symbolism.  It  means,  first,  the  sea  ; sec- 
ondarily, the  ascending  and  descending 
course  of  any  of  the  heavenly  bodies  from 
one  sea  horizon  to  another — the  dolphins' 
arching  rise  and  replunge  (in  a summer 
evening,  out  of  calm  sea,  their  black  backs 
roll  round  with  exactly  the  slow  motion  of  a 
water-wheel  ; but  I do  not  know^  how  far 
Aristotle's  exaggerated  account  of  their  leap- 
ing or  their  swiftness  has  any  foundation) 
being  taken  as  a type  of  the  emergence  of 
the  sun  or  stars  from  the  sea  in  the  east,  and 
plunging  beneath  in  the  west.  Hence,  Apollo, 
w^hen  in  his  personal  power  he  crosses  the 
sea,  leading  his  Cretan  colonists  to  Pytho, 
takes  the  form  of  a dolphin,  becomes  Apollo 
Delphinius,  and  names  the  founded  colony 
‘"Delphi."  The  lovely  drawing  of  the  Del- 
phic Apollo  on  the  hydria  of  the  Vatican  (Le 
Normand  and  De  Witte,  vol.  ii.  p.  6)  gives 
the  entire  conception  of  this  myth.  Again, 
the  beautiful  coins  of  Tarentum  represent 
Taras  coming  to  found  the  city,  riding  on  a 


70  ®be  (Slueen  of  tbe  air* 

dolphin,  whose  leaps  and  plunges  have 
partly  the  rage  of  the  sea  in  them,  and  partly 
the  spring  of  the  horse,  because  the  splendid 
riding  of  the  Tarentines  had  made  their 
name  proverbial  in  Magna  Graecia.  The 
story  of  Arion  is  a collateral  fragment  of  the 
same  thought  ; and,  again,  the  plunge, 
before  their  tTansformation,  of  the  ships  of 
^neas.  Then,  this  idea  of  career  upon,  or 
conquest  of,  the  sea,  either  by  the  creatures 
themselves,  or  by  dolphin-like  ships  (com- 
pare the  Merlin  prophecy, 

“ They  shall  ride 
Over  ocean  wide 

With  hempen  bridle,  and  horse  of  tree,”) 

connects  itself  with  the  thought  of  undula- 
tion, and  of  the  wave-power  in  the  sea 
itself,  which  is  always  expressed  by  the  ser- 
pentine bodies  either  of  the  sea-gods  or  of  the 
sea-horse  ; and  when  Athena  carries,  as  she 
does  often  in  later  work,  a serpent  for  her 
shield-sign,  it  is  not  so  much  the  repetition 
of  her  own  aegis-snakes  as  the  further  expres- 
sion of  her  power  over  the  sea-wave  ; which, 
finally,  Vergil  gives  in  its  perfect  unity  with 
her  own  anger,  in  the  approach  of  the  ser- 


XTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Hir* 


71 


pents  against  Laocoon  from  the  sea ; and 
then,  finally,  when  her  own  storm-power  is 
fully  put  forth  on  the  ocean  also,  and  the 
madness  of  the  aegis-snake  is  given  to  the 
wave-snake,  the  sea-wave  becomes  the 
devouring  hound  at  the  waist  of  Scylla,  and 
Athena  takes  Scylla  for  her  helmet-crest  ; 
while  yet  her  beneficent  and  essential  power 
on  the  ocean,  in  making  navigation  possible, 
is  commemorated  in  the  Panathenaic  festival 
by  her  peplus  being  carried  to  the  Erech- 
theum  suspended  from  the  mast  of  a ship. 

In  Plate  cxv.  of  vol.  ii.,  Le  Normand,  are 
given  two  sides  of  a vase,  which,  in  rude 
and  childish  way,  assembles  most  of  the 
principal  thoughts  regarding  Athena  in  this 
relation.  In  the  first,  the  sunrise  is  repre- 
sented by  the  ascending  chariot  of  ..Apollo, 
foreshortened  ; the  light  is  supposed  to  blind 
the  eyes,  and  no  face  of  the  god  is  seen 
(Turner,  in  the  Ulysses  and  Polyphemus 
sunrise,  loses  the  form  of  the  god  in  light, 
giving  the  chariot-horses  only  ; rendering  in 
his  own  manner,  after  2, 200  years  of  various 
fall  and  revival  of  the  arts,  precisely  the 
same  thought  as  the  old  Greek  potter).  He 
ascends  out  of  the  sea  ; but  the  sea  itself 


72 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Btr* 


has  not  yet  caught  the  light.  In  the  second 
design,  Athena  as  the  morning  breeze,  and 
Hermes  as  the  morning  cloud,  fly  over  the 
sea  before  the  sun.  Hermes  turns  back  his 
head;  his  face  is  unseen  in  the  cloud,  as 
Apollo's  in  the  light ; the  grotesque  appear- 
ance of  an  animal's  face  is  only  the  cloud- 
phantasm  modifying  a frequent  form  of  the 
hair  of  Hermes  beneath  the  back  of  his  cap. 
Under  the  morning  breeze,  the  dolphins  leap 
from  the  rippled  sea,  and  their  sides  catch  the 
light. 

The  coins  of  the  Lucanian  Heracleia  give 
a fair  representation  of  the  helmed  Athena, 
as  imagined  in  later  Greek  art,  with  the 
embossed  Scylla. 

40.  Fourthly,  Athena  is  the  air  nourish- 
ing artificial  light — unconsuming  fire.  There- 
fore, a lamp  was  always  kept  burning  in  the 
Erechtheum ; and  the  torch-race  belongs 
chiefly  to  her  festival,  of  which  the  meaning 
is  to  show  the  danger  of  the  perishing  of  the 
light  even  by  excess  of  the  air  that  nourishes 
it ; and  so  that  the  race  is  not  to  the  swift, 
but  to  the  wise.  The  household  use  of  her 
constant  light  is  symbolized  in  the  lonely 
passage  in  the  Odyssey,  where  Ulysses  and 


Sbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


73 


his  son  move  the  armor  while  the  servants 
are  shut  in  their  chambers,  and  there  is  no 
one  to  hold  torches  for  them  ; but  Athena 
herself,  having  a golden  lamp,''  fills  all  the 
rooms  with  light.  Her  presence  in  war- 
strength  with  her  favorite  heroes  is  always 
shown  by  the  unwearied"  fire  hovering 
on  their  helmets  and  shields  ; and  the  image 
gradually  becomes  constant  and  accepted, 
both  for  the  maintenance  of  household 
watchfulness,  as  in  the  parable  of  the  ten 
virgins,  or  as  the  symbol  of  direct  inspiration, 
in  the  rushing  wind  and  divided  flames  of 
Pentecost ; but  together  with  this  thought  of 
unconsuming'  and  constant  fire,  there  is 
always  mingled  in  the  Greek  mind  the  sense 
of  the  consuming  by  excess,  as  of  the  flame 
by  the  air,  so  also  of  the  inspired  creature  by 
its  own  fire  (thus,  again,  the  zeal  of  thine 
house  hath  eaten  me  up  " — ''  my  zeal  hath 
consumed  me,  because  of  thine  enemies," 
and  the  like)  ; and  especially  Athena  has  this 
aspect  towards  the  truly  sensual  and  bodily 
strength ; so  that  to  Ares,  who  is  himself 
insane  and  consuming,  the  opposite  wisdom 
seems  to  be  insane  and  consuming:  '‘All 
we  the  other  gods  have  thee  against  us,  O 


74 


XLbc  (auecn  of  tbc  Uiu 


Jove  ! when  we  would  give  grace  to  men  ; 
for  thou  hast  begotten  the  maid  without  a 
mind — the  mischievous  creature,  the  doer  of 
unseemly  evil.  All  we  obey  thee,  and 
are  ruled  by  thee.  Her  only  thou  wilt  not 
resist  in  anything  she  says  or  does,  because 
thou  didst  bear  her — consuming  child  as 
she  is. '' 

41.  Lastly,  Athena  is  the  air  conveying 
vibration  of  sound. 

In  all  the  loveliest  representations  in  cen- 
tral Greek  art  of  the  birth  of  Athena,  Apollo 
stands  close  to  the  sitting  Jupiter,  singing, 
with  a deep,  quiet  joyfulness,  to  his  lyre. 
The  sun  is  always  thought  of  as  the  master 
of  time  and  rhythm,  and  as  the  origin  of  the 
composing  and  inventive  discovery  of  mel- 
ody ; but  the  air,  as  the  actual  element  and 
substance  of  the  voice,  the  prolonging  and 
sustaining  power  of  it,  «nd  the  symbol  of  its 
moral  passion.  Whatever  in  music  is  meas- 
ured and  designed  belongs  therefore  to  Apollo 
and  the  Muses  ; whatever  is  impulsive  and 
passionate,  to  Athena ; hence  her  constant 
strength  a voice  or  cry  (as  when  she  aids 
the  shout  of  Achilles)  curiously  opposed  to 
the  dumbness  of  Demeter.  The  Apolline 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbc 


7S 


lyre,  therefore,  is  not  so  much  the  instrument 
producing  sound,  as  its  measurer  and  divider 
by  length  or  tension  of  string  into  given 
notes  ; and  I believe  it  is,  in  a double  con- 
nection with  its  office  as  a measurer  of  time 
or  motion  and  its  relation  to  the  transit  of 
the  sun  in  the  sky,  that  Hermes  forms  it 
from  the  tortoise-shell,  which  is  the  image 
of  the  dappled  concave  of  the  cloudy  sky. 
Thenceforward  all  the  limiting  or  restraining 
modes  of  music  belong  to  the  Muses ; but 
the  passionate  music  is  wind  music,  as  in 
the  Doric  flute.  Then,  when  this  inspired 
music  becomes  degraded  in  its  passion,  it 
sinks  into  the  pipe  of  Pan,  and  the  double  pipe 
of  Marsyas,  and  is  then  rejected  by  Athena. 
The  myth  which  represents  her  doing  so  is 
that  she  invented  the  double  pipe  from  hear- 
ing the  hiss  of  the  Gorgonian  serpents  ; but 
when  she  played  upon  it,  ^chancing  to  see 
her  face  reflected  in  water,  she  saw  that  it  was 
distorted,  whereupon  she  threw  down  the 
flute  which  Marsyas  found.  Then,  the  strife 
of  Apollo  and  Marsyas  represents  the  endur- 
ing contest  between  music  in  which  the 
words  and  thought  lead,  and  the  lyre  meas- 
ures or  melodizes  them  (which  Pindar  means 


/ XLbc  (aucen  of  tbe  2ltr* 

when  he  calls  his  hymns  '"kings  over  the 
lyre and  music  in  which  the  words  are 
lost  and  the  wind  or  impulse  leads, — gener- 
ally, therefore,  between  intellectual,  and 
brutal,  or  meaningless,  music.  Therefore, 
when  Apollo  prevails,  he  flays  Marsyas,  tak- 
ing the  limit  and  external  bond  of  his  shape 
from  him,  which  is  death,  without  touching 
the  mere  muscular  strength,  yet  shameful  and 
dreadful  in  dissolution. 

42.  And  the  opposition  of  these  two  kinds 
of  sound  is  continually  dwelt  upon  by  the 
Greek  philosophers,  the  real  fact  at  the  root 
of  all  their  teaching  being  this,  that  true 
music  is  the  natural  expression  of  a lofty 
passion  for  a right  cause ; that  in  proportion 
to  the  kingliness  and  force  of  any  personal- 
ity, the  expression  either  of  its  joy  or  suffer- 
ing becomes  measured,  chastened,  calm,  and 
capable  of  interpretation  only  by  the  majesty 
of  ordered,  beautiful,  and  worded  sound. 
Exactly  in  proportion  to  the  degree  in  which 
we  become  narrow  in  the  cause  and  concep- 
tion of  our  passions,  incontinent  in  the  utter- 
ance of  them,  feeble  of  perseverance  in  them, 
sullied  or  shameful  in  the  indulgence  of 
them,  their  expression  by  musical  sound  be- 


Zbc  (Sluecn  of  tbz  Miu 


77 


comes  bFoken,  mean,  fatuitous,  and  at  last 
impossible ; the  measured  waves  of  the  air 
of  heaven  will  not  lend  themselves  to  ex- 
pression of  ultimate  vice,  it  must  be  forever 
sunk  into  discordance  or  silence.  And  since, 
as  before  stated,  every  work  of  right  art  has 
a tendency  to  reproduce  the  ethical  state 
which  first  developed  it,  this,  which  of  all 
the  arts  is  most  directly  ethical  in  origin,  is 
also  the  most  direct  in  power  of  discipline; 
the  first,  the  simplest,  the  most  effective  of 
all  instruments  of  moral  instruction ; while 
in  the  failure  and  betrayal  of  its  functions, 
it  becomes  the  subtlest  aid  of  moral  degra- 
dation. Music  is  thus,  in  her  health,  the 
teacher  of  perfect  order,  and  is  the  voice  of 
the  obedience  of  angels,  and  the  companion 
of  the  course  of  the  spheres  of  heaven  ; and 
in  her  depravity  she  is  also  the  teacher  of 
perfect  disorder  and  disobedience,  and  the 
Gloria  in  Excelsis  becomes  the  Marseillaise. 
In  the  third  section  of  this  volume,  I reprint 
two  chapters  from  another  essay  of  mine 
("‘The  Cestus  of  Aglaia''),  on  modesty  or 
measure,  and  on  liberty,  containing  further 
reference  to  music  in  her  two  powers  ; and  I 
do  this  now,  because,  among  the  many  mom 


ttbc  (Siuccn  ot  tbc  atr. 


78 

strous  and  misbegotten  fantasies  which  are 
the  spawn  of  modern  license,  perhaps  the 
most  impishly  opposite  to  the  truth  is  the 
conception  of  music  which  has  rendered 
possible  the  writing,  by  educated  persons, 
and,  more  strangely  yet,  the  tolerant  criti- ' 
cism,  of  such  words  as  these  : This  so 
persuasive  art  is  the  only  one  that  has  no  didac- 
tic efficacy,  that  engenders  no  emotions  save 
such  as  are  without  issue  on  the  side  of  moral 
truth,  that  expresses  nothing  of  God,  nothing 
of  reason,  nothing  of  human  liberty T I will 
not  give  the  author  s name  ; the  passage  is 
quoted  in  the  ''Westminster  Review''  for 
last  January  [1869]. 

43.  I must  also  anticipate  something  of 
what  I have  to  say  respecting  the  relation  of 
the  power  of  Athena  to  organic  life,  so  far  as 
to  note  that  her  name,  Pallas,  probably  refers 
to  the  quivering  or  vibration  of  the  air ; and 
to  its  power,  whether  as  vital  force,  or  com- 
municated wave,  over  every  kind  of  matter, 
in  giving  it  vibratory  movement ; first,  and 
most  intense,  in  the  voice  and  throat  of  the 
bird,  which  is  the  air  incarnate ; and  so  de- 
scending through  the  various  orders  of  ani- 
mal life  to  the  vibrating  and  semi-voluntary 


Zbc  (Slucen  of  tbe  Bit* 


79 


murmur  of  the  insect ; and,  lower  still,  to  the 
hiss  or  quiver  of  the  tail  of  the  half-lunged 
snake  and  deaf  adder  ; all  these,  neverthe- 
less, being  wholly  under  the  rule  of  Athena 
as  representing  either  breath  or  vital  nervous 
power ; and,  therefore,  also,  in  their  sim- 
plicity, the  oaten  pipe  and  pastoral  song, 
which  belong  to  her  dominion  over  the  as- 
phodel meadows,  and  breathe  on  their  banks 
of  violets. 

Finally,  is  it  not  strange  to  think  of  the 
influence  of  this  one  power  of  Pallas  in  vi- 
bration (we  shall  see  a singular  mechanical 
energy  of  it  presently  in  the  serpent's  mo- 
tion), in  the  voices  of  war  and  peace  ? How 
much  of  the  repose,  how  much  of  the  wrath, 
folly,  and  misery  of  men,  has  literally  de- 
pended on  this  one  power  of  the  air  ; on  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet  and  of  the  bell,  on  the 
lark's  song,  and  the  bee's  murmur  ! 

44.  Such  is  the  general  conception  in  the 
Greek  mind  of  the  physical  power  of  Athena. 
The  spiritual  power  associated  with  it  is  of 
two  kinds  : first,  she  is  the  Spirit  of  Life  in 
material  organism ; not  strength  in  the 
blood  only,  but  formative  energy  in  the 
clay ; and,  secondly,  she  is  inspired  and 


ZTbe  (Siueen  of  tbe  2lft* 


So 

impulsive  wisdom  in  human  conduct  and 
human  art,  giving  the  instinct  of  infallible 
decision,  and  of  faultless  invention. 

It  is  quite  beyond  the  scope  of  my  present 
purpose — and,  indeed,  will  only  be  possible 
for  me  at  all  after  marking  the  relative  in- 
tention of  the  Apolline  myths — to  trace  for 
you  the  Greek  conception  of  Athena  as  the 
guide  of  moral  passion.  But  I will  at  least 
endeavor,  on  some  near  occasion,*  to  define 
some  of  the  actual  truths  respecting  the  vital 
force  in  created  organism,  and  inventive 
fancy  in  the  works  of  man,  which  are  more 
or  less  expressed  by  the  Greeks,  under  the 
personality  of  Athena.  You  would,  per- 
haps, hardly  bear  with  me  if  I endeavored 
further  to  show  you — what  is  nevertheless 
perfectly  true — the  analogy  between  the 
spiritual  power  of  Athena  in  her  gentle  min- 
istry, yet  irresistible  anger,  with  the  ministry 
of  another  Spirit  whom  we  also,  holding  for 
the  universal  power  of  life,  are  forbidden,  at 
our  worst  peril,  to  quench  or  to  grieve. 

45.  But,  I think,  to-night,  you  should  not 

* I have  tried  to  do  this  in  mere  outline  in  the  two 
following  sections  of  this  volume. 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  %iv. 


8i 


!ef  me  close  without  requiring  of  me  an 
answer  on  one  vital  point,  namely,  how  far 
these  imaginations  of  gods — which  are  vain 
to  us — were  vain  to  those  who  had  no  bettei 
trust  ? and  what  real  belief  the  Greek  had  in 
these  creations  of  his  own  spirit,  practical 
and  helpful  to  him  in  the  sorrow  of  earth  ? 
I am  able  to  answer  you  explicitly  in  this. 
The  origin  of  his  thoughts  is  often  obscure, 
and  we  may  err  in  endeavoring  to  account 
for  their  form  of  realization  ; but  the  effect 
of  that  realization  on  his  life  is  not  obscure 
at  all.  The  Greek  creed  was,  of  course, 
different  in  its  character,  as  our  own  creed 
is,  according  to  the  class  of  persons  who 
held  it.  The  common  people’s  was  quite 
literal,  simple,  and  happy ; their  idea  of 
Athena  was  as  clear  as  a good  Roman  Cath- 
olic peasant’s  idea  of  the  Madonna.  In 
Athens  itself,  the  centre  of  thought  and  re- 
finement, Pisistratus  obtained  the  reins  of 
government  through  the  ready  belief  of  the 
populace  that  a beautiful  woman,  armed 
like  Athena,  was  the  goddess  herself  Even 
at  the  close  of  the  last  century  some  of  this 
simplicity  remained  among  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Greek  islands  ; and  when  a pretty 


82 


Zbc  (Slucen  ot  tbe  Bit. 


English  lady  first  made  her  way  into  the 
grotto  of  Antiparos,  she  was  surrounded,  on 
her  return,  by  all  the  women  of  the  neighbor- 
ing village,  believing  her  to  be  divine,  and, 
praying  her  to  heal  them  of  their  sicknesses. 

46.  Then,  secondly,  the  creed  of  the 
upper  classes  was  more  refined  and  spiritual, 
but  quite  as  honest,  and  even  more  forcible 
in  its  effect  on  the  life.  You  might  imagine 
that  the  employment  of  the  artifice  just 
referred  to  implied  utter  unbelief  in  the  per- 
sons contriving  it ; but  it  really  meant  only 
that  the  more  worldly  of  them  would  play 
with  a popular  faith  for  their  own  purposes, 
as  doubly-minded  persons  have  often  done 
since,  all  the  while  sincerely  holding  the 
same  ideas  themselves  in  a more  abstract 
form  ; while  the  good  and  unworldly  men, 
the  true  Greek  heroes,  lived  by  their  faith  as 
firmly  as  St.  Louis,  or  the  Cid,  or  the  Chev- 
alier Bayard. 

47.  Then,  thirdly,  the  faith  of  the  poets 
and  artists  was,  necessarily,  less  definite, 
being  continually  modified  by  the  involun- 
tary action  of  their  own  fancies  ; and  by  the 
necessity  of  presenting,  in  clear  verbal  or 
material  form,  things  of  which  they  had  nc 


TLbc  (Slueen  of  tbc  Bit*  85 

authoritative  knowledge.  Their  faith  was, 
in  some  respects,  like  Dante's  or  Milton's: 
firm  in  general  conception,  but  not  able  to 
vouch  for  every  detail  in  the  forms  they  gave 
it ; but  they  went  considerably  farther,  even 
in  that  minor  sincerity,  than  subsequent 
poets  ; and  strove  with  all  their  might  to  be 
as  near  the  truth  as  they  could.  Pindar  says, 
quite  simply,  ‘‘I  cannot  think  so-and-so  of 
the  gods.  It  must  have  been  this  way — it 
cannot  have  been  that  way — that  the  thing 
was  done."  And  as  late  among  the  Latins 
as  the  days  of  Horace,  this  sincerity  re- 
mains. Horace  is  just  as  true  and  simple 
in  his  religion  as  Wordsworth ; but  all 
power  of  understanding  any  of  the  hon- 
est classic  poets  has  been  taken  away  from 
most  English  gentlemen  by  the  mechanical 
drill  in  verse-writing  at  school.  Throughout 
the  whole  of  their  lives  afterwards,  they 
never  can  get  themselves  quit  of  the  notion 
that  all  verses  were  written  as  an  exercise, 
and  that  Minerva  was  only  a convenient 
word  for  the  last  of  a hexameter,  and  Jupiter 
for  the  last  but  one. 

48.  It  is  impossible  that  any  notion  can 
be  more  fallacious  or  more  misleading  in  its 


Cbe  (Sluecn  of  tbe 


«4 

consequences.  All  great  song,  from  the 
first  day  when  human  lips  contrived  sylla- 
bles, has  been  sincere  song.  With  deliber- 
ate didactic  purpose  the  tragedians — with 
pure  and  native  passion  the  lyrists — fitted 
their  perfect  words  to  their  dearest  faiths. 

Operosa  parvus  carmina  fingo.''  I,  little 
thing  that  I am,  weave  my  laborious  songs 
as  earnestly  as  the  bee  among  the  bells  of 
thyme  on  the  Matin  mountains.  Yes,  and 
he  dedicates  his  favorite  pine  to  Diana,  and 
he  chants  his  autumnal  hymn  to  the  Faun 
that  guards  his  fields,  and  he  guides  the 
noble  youth  and  maids  of  Rome  in  their 
choir  to  Apollo,  and  he  tells  the  farmer's 
little  girl  that  the  gods  will  love  her,  though 
she  has  only  a handful  of  salt  and  meal  to 
give  them — ^just  as  earnestly  as  ever  English 
gentleman  taught  Christian  faith  to  English 
youth  in  England's  truest  days. 

49.  Then,  lastly,  the  creed  of  the  philos- 
ophers of  sages  varied  according  to  the  char- 
acter and  knowledge  of  each  ; their  relative 
acquaintance  with  the  secrets  of  natural 
science,  their  intellectual  and  sectarian  ego- 
tism, and  their  mystic  or  monastic  tenden- 
cies, for  there  is  a classic  as  well  as  a medi- 


trbe  (Siueen  of  tbe  85 

seval  monasticism.  They  end  in  losing  the 
life  of  Greece  in  play  upon  words  ; but  we 
owe  to  their  early  thought  some  of  the  sound- 
est ethics,  and  the  foundation  of  the  best 
practical  laws,  yet  known  to  mankind. 

50.  Such  was  the  general  vitality  of  the 
heathen  creed  in  its  strength.  Of  its  direct 
influence  on  conduct,  it  is,  as  I said,  impos- 
sible for  me  to  speak  now  ; only,  remem- 
ber always,  in  endeavoring  to  form  a judg- 
ment of  it,  that  what  of  good  or  right  the 
heathens  did,  they  did  looking  for  no  reward. 
The  purest  forms  of  our  own  religion  have 
always  consisted  in  sacrificing  less  things 
to  win  greater,  time  to  win  eternity,  the 
world  to  win  the  skies.  The  order,  Sell 
that  thou  hast,''  is  not  given  without  the 
promise,  ‘‘  Thou  shalt  have  treasure  in 
heaven  ; " and  well  for  the  modern  Chris- 
tian if  he  accepts  the  alternative  as  his 
Master  left  it,  and  does  not  practically  read 
the  command  and  promise  thus:  ''Sell 
that  thou  hast  in  the  best  market,  and 
thou  shalt  have  treasure  in  eternity  also." 
But  the  poor  Greeks  of  the  great  ages 
expected  no  reward  from  heaven  but  honor, 
and  no  reward  from  earth  but  rest ; though, 


86 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


when,  on  those  conditions,  they  patiently, 
and  proudly,  fulfilled  their  task  of  the 
granted  day,  an  unreasoning  instinct  of  an 
immortal  benediction  broke  from  their  lips 
in  song  ; and  they,  even  they,  had  some- 
times a prophetto  tell  them  of  a land  wh  re 
there  is  sun  alike  by  day  and  alike  by  night, 
where  they  shall  need  no  more  to  trouble  the 
earth  by  strength  of  hands  for  daily  bread  ; 
but  the  ocean  breezes  blow  around  the 
blessed  islands,  and  golden  flowers  burn  on 
their  bright  trees  for  evermore/' 


Sbe  (S^ueen  of  tbo  Hie. 


87 


II. 

ATHENA  KERAMITIS.* 

{Athena  in  the  Earth, ) 

STUDY,  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PRECEDING  LECT- 
URE, OF  THE  SUPPOSED  AND  ACTUAL  RELATIONS 
OF  ATHENA  TO  THE  VITAL  FOxvCE  IN  MATERIAL 
ORGANISM. 

51.  It  has  been  easy  to  decipher  approxi- 
mately th^  Greek  conception  of  the  physical 
power  of  Athena  in  cloud  and  sky,  because 
we  know  ourselves  what  clouds  and  skies 
are,  and  what  the  force  of  the  wind  is  in 
forming ‘them.  But  it  is  not  at  all  easy  to 
trace  the  Greek  thoughts  about  the  power  of 
Athena  in  giving  life,  because  we  do  not  our- 
selves know  clearly  what  life  is,  or  in  what 
way  the  air  is  necessary  to  it,  or  what  there 
is,  besides  the  air,  shaping  the  forms  that  it 

* **  Athena,  fit  for  being  made  into  pottery.’’  I coin 

the  expression  as  a counterpart  of  yrj  irapdivLay  **  Clay 
intact.” 


88 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


is  put  into.  And  it  is  comparatively  of  small 
consequence  to  find  out  what  the  Greeks 
thought  or  meant,  until  we  have  determined 
what  we  ourselves  think,  or  mean,  when  we 
translate  the  Greek  word  for  breathing '' 
into  the  Latin-English  word  spirit/' 

52.  But  it  is  of  great  consequence  that 
you  should  fix  in  your  minds — and  hold, 
against  the  baseness  of  mere  materialism  on 
the  one  hand,  and  against  the  fallacies  of 
controversial  speculation  on  the  other — the 
certain  and  practical  sense  of  this  word 
‘^spirit ; " the  sense  in  which  you  all  know 
that  its  reality  exists,  as  the  power  which 
shaped  you  into  your  shape,  and  by  which 
you  love  and  hate  when  you  have  received 
that  shape.  You  need  not  fear,  on  the  one 
hand,  that  either  the  sculpturing  or  the  lov- 
ing power  can  ever  be  beaten  down  by  the 
philosophers  into  a metal,  or  evolved  by  them 
into  a gas  ; but  on  the  other  hand,  take  care 
that  you  yourself,  in  trying  to  elevate  your 
conception  of  it,  do  not  lose  its  truth  in  a 
dream,  or  even  in  a word.  Beware  always 
of  contending  for  words  : you  will  find  them 
not  easy  to  grasp,  if  you  know  them  in  sev- 
eral languages.  This  very  word,  which  is 


Cbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  89 

so  solemn  in  your  mouths,  is  one  of  the  most 
doubtful.  In  Latin  it  means  little  more  than 
breathing,  and  may  mean  merely  accent ; in 
French  it  is  not  breath,  but  wit,  and  our 
neighbors  are  therefore  obliged,  even  in 
their  most  solemn  expressions,  to  say  '^wiL’ 
when  we  say  ghost."'  In  Greek,  ^^pneuma," 
the  word  we  translate  ghost,"  means  either 
wind  or  breath,  and  the  relative  word 
"^psyche"  has,  perhaps,  a more  subtle 
power;  yet  St.  Paul's  words  ''pneumatic 
body"  and  "psychic  body"  involve  a dif- 
ference in  his  mind  which  no  words  will  ex- 
plain. But  in  Greek  and  in  English,  and  in 
Saxon  and  in  Hebrew,  and  in  every  articu- 
late tongue  of  humanity  the  "spirit  of  man" 
truly  means  his  passion  and  virtue,  and  is 
stately  according  to  the  height  of  his  con- 
ception, and  stable  according  to  the  meas- 
ure of  his  endurance. 

53.  Endurance,  or  patience,  that  is  the 
central  sign  of  spirit ; a constancy  against 
the  cold  and  agony  of  death  ; and  as,  phys- 
ically, it  is  by  the  burning  power  of  the  air 
that  the  heat  of  the  flesh  is  sustained,  so  this 
Athena,  spiritually,  is  the  queen  of  all  glow- 
ing virtue,  the  unconsuming  fire  and  inner 


90 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bir* 


lamp  of  life.  And  thus,  as  Hephaestus  is 
lord  of  the  fire  of  the  hand,  and  Apollo  of  the 
fire  of  the  brain,  so  Athena  of  the  fire  of  the 
heart ; and  as  Hercules  wears  for  his  chief 
armor  the  skin  of  the  Nemean  lion,  his  chief 
enemy,  whom  he  slew  ; and  Apollo  has  for 
his  highest  name  'Hhe  Pythian,''  from  his 
chief  enemy,  the  Python  slain  ; so  Athena 
bears  always  on  her  breast  the  deadly  face 
of  her  chief  enemy  slain,  the  Gorgonian  cold, 
and  venomous  agony,  that  turns  living  men 
to  stone. 

54.  And  so  long  as  you  have  that  fire  of 
the  heart  within  you,  and  know  the  reality 
of  it,  you  need  be  under  no  alarm  as  to  the 
possibility  of  its  chemical  or  mechanical 
analysis.  The  philosophers  are  very  humor- 
ous in  their  ecstasy  of  hope  about  it ; but 
the  real  interest  of  their  discoveries  in  this 
direction  is  very  small  to  humankind.  It  is 
quite  true  that  the  tympanum  of  the  ear  vi- 
brates under  sound,  and  that  the  surface  of 
the  water  in  a ditch  vibrates  too  ; but  the 
ditch  hears  nothing  for  all  that ; and  my 
hearing  is  still  to  me  as  blessed  a mystery  as 
ever,  and  the  interval  between  the  ditch  and 
me  quite  as  great.  If  the  trembling  sound 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  %iu 


91 


ill  my  ears  was  once  of  the  marriage-bell 
which  began  my  happiness,  and  is  now  of 
the  passing-bell  which  ends  it,  the  difference 
between  those  two  sounds  to  me  cannot  be 
counted  by  the  number  of  concussions. 
There  have  been  some  curious  speculations 
lately  as  to  the  conveyance  of  mental  con- 
sciousness by  brain- waves. What  does 
it  matter  how  it  is  conveyed?  The  con- 
sciousness itself  is  not  a wave.  It  may  be 
accompanied  here  or  there  by  any  quantity 
of  quivers  and  shakes,  up  or  down,  of  any- 
thing 'you  can  find  in  the  universe  that  is 
shakable — what  is  that  to  me  ? My  friend  is 
dead,  and  my — according  to  modern  views — 
vibratory  sorrow  is  not  one  whit  less,  or  less 
mysterious,  to  me,  than  my  old  quiet  one. 

55.  Beyond,  and  entirely  unaffected  by, 
any  questionings  of  this  kind,  there  are, 
therefore,  two  jplain  facts  which  we  should 
all  know  : first,  that  there  is  a power  which 
gives  their  several  shapes  to  things,  or  ca- 
pacities of  shape ; and,  secondly,  a power 
which  gives  them  their  several  feelings,  or 
capacities  of  feeling  ; and  that  we  can  in- 
crease or  destroy  both  of  these  at  our  will. 
By  care  and  tenderness,  we  can  extend  the 


92 


Zbc  Queen  of  tbe  "Bit. 


range  of  lovely  life  in  plants  and  animals  ^ 
by  our  neglect  and  cruelty,  we  can  arrest  it, 
and  bring  pestilence  in  its  stead.  Again, 
by  right  discipline  we  can  increase  our 
strength  of  noble  will  and  passion  or  destroy 
both.  And  whether  these  two  forces  are 
local  conditions  of  the  elements  in  which 
they  appear,  or  are  part  of  a great  force  in 
the  universe,  out  of  which  they  are  taken, 
and  to  which  they  must  be  restored,  is  not 
of  the  slightest  importance  to  us  in  dealing 
with  them  ; neither  is  the  manner  of  their 
connection  with  light  and  air.  What  j5recise 
meaning  we  ought  to  attach  to  expressions 
such  as  that  of  the  prophecy  to  the  four 
winds  that  the  dry  bones  might  be  breathed 
upon,  and  might  live,  or  why  the  presence 
of  the  vital  power  should  be  dependent  on 
' the  chemical  action  of  the  air,  and  its  awful 
passing  away  materially  signified  by  the 
rendering  up  of  that  breath  or  ghost,  we  can- 
not at  present  know,  and  need  not  at  any 
time  dispute.  What  we  assuredly  know  is 
that  the  states  of  life  and  death  are  different, 
and  the  first  more  desirable  than  the  other, 
and  by  effort  attainable,  whether  we  under- 
stand being  ‘'born  of  the  spirit to  signify 


Zbc  dueen  ot  tbe  Btr< 


93 

having  the  breath  of  heaven  in  our  flesh,  or 
its  power  in  our  hearts. 

56.  As  to  its  power  on  the  body,  I will 
endeavor  to  tell  you,  having  been  myself 
much  led  into  studies  involving  necessary 
reference  both  to  natural  science  and  mental 
phenomena,  what,  at  least,  remains  to  us 
after  science  has  done  its  worst ; what  the 
myth  of  Athena,  as  a formative  and  decisive 
power,  a spirit  of  creation  and  volition,  must 
eternally  mean  for  all  of  us. 

57.  It  is  now  (I  believe  I may  use  the 
strong  word)  ^‘ascertained’'  that  heat  and 
motion  are  fixed  in  quantity,  and  measurable 
in  the  portions  that  we  deal  with.  We  can 
measure  out  portions  of  power,  as  we  can 
measure  portions  of  space  ; while  yet,  as 
far  as  we  know,  space  may  be  infinite,  and 
force  infinite.  There  may  be  heat  as  much 
greater  than  the  sun’s,  as  the  sun’s  heat  is 
greater  than  a candle’s  : and  force  as  much 
greater  than  the  force  by  which  the  world 
swings,  as  that  is  greater  than  the  force  by 
which  a cobweb  trembles.  Now,  on  heat 
and  force,  life  is  inseparably  dependent ; and 
I believe,  also,  on  a form  of  substance, 
which  the  philosophers  call  “protoplasm.” 


94 


Zbc  (auecn  of  tbe  Bit* 


I wish  they  would  use  English  instead  of 
Greek  words.  When  I want  to  know  why 
a leaf  is  green,  they  tell  me  it  is  colored  by 
chlorophyll,''  which  at  first  sounds  very 
instructive ; but  if  they  would  only  say 
plainly  that  a leaf  is  colored  green  by  a thing 
which  is  called  green  leaf,"  we  should  see 
more  precisely  how  far  we  had  got.  How- 
ever, it  is  a curious  fact  that  life  is  connected 
with  a cellular  structure  called  protoplasm, 
or  in  English,  '‘first  stuck  together;" 
whence,  conceivably  through  deuteroplasms, 
or  second  stickings,  and  tritoplasms,  or  third 
stickings,  we  reach  the  highest  plastic  phase 
in  the  human  pottery,  which  differs  from 
common  chinaware,  primarily,  by  a meas- 
urable degree  of  heat,  developed  in  breath- 
ing, which  it  borrows  from  the  rest  of  the 

* Or,  perhaps,  we  may  be  indulged  with  one  consum- 
mal^hg  gleam  of  “glycasm,”  visible  “ Sweetness,” — ac- 
cording to  the  good  old  monk,  Full  moon,”  or  ‘‘  All 
moonshine.”  I cannot  get  at  his  original  Greek,  but 
am  content  with  M.  Di^and’s  clear  French  (Manuel 
d’Iconographie  Chretienne.  Paris,  1845)  • Lorsque 
vous  aurez  A-it  le  proplasme,  et  esquissc  un  visage,  to»6 
ferez  les  chairs  avec  le  glycasme  dont  nous  avons 
ne  la  recette.  Chez  les  vieillards,  vous  indiquerez  les 
rides,  et  chez  les  jeunes  gens,  les  angles  dez  yeux. 
C’estainsi  qui  I’on  fait  les  chairs,  suivant  Panselinos.” 


^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


95 


universe  while  it  lives,  and  which  it  as  cer- 
tainly returns  to  the  rest  of  the  universe, 
when  it  dies. 

58.  Again,  with  this  heat  certain  assimi- 
lative powers  are  connected,  which  the  tend- 
ency of  recent  discovery  is  to  simplify  more 
and  more  into  modes  of  one  force  ; or  finally 
into  mere  motion,  communicable  in  various 
states,  but  not  destructible.  We  will  assume 
that  science  has  done  its  utmost  ; and  that 
every  chemical  or  animal  force  is  demon- 
strably resolvable  into  heat  or  motion,  re- 
ciprocally changing  into  each  other.  I 
would  myself  like  better,  in  order  of  thought, 
to  consider  motion  as  a mode  of  heat  than 
heat  as  a mode  of  motion  ; still,  granting 
that  we  have  got  thus  far,  we  have  yet  to 
ask.  What  is  heat  ? or  what  motion  ? What 
is  this  ‘‘primo  mobile,'’  this  transitional 
power,  in  which  all  things  live,  and  move, 
and  have  their  being.?  It  is  by  definition 
something  different  from  matter,  and  we  may 
call  it  as  we  choose,  ''first  cause,"  or  "first 
light,"  or  " first  heat ; " but  we  can  show  no 
scientific  proof  of  its  not  being  personal,  and 
coinciding  with  the  ordinary  conception  of 
a supporting  spirit  in  all  things. 


96  tlbe  (Siucen  of  tbe  Btr* 

59.  Still,  it  is  not  advisable  to  apply  the 
word  spirit''  or  '' breathing  " to  it,  while  it 
is  only  enforcing  chemical  affinities  ; but, 
when  the  chemical  affinities  are  brought 
under  the  influence  of  the  air,  and  of  the 
sun's  heat,  the  formative  force  enters  an 
entirely  different  phase.  It  does  not  now 
merely  crystallize  indefinite  masses,  but  it 
gives  to  limited  portions  of  matter  the  power 
of  gathering,  selectively,  other  elements 
proper  to  them,  and  binding  these  elements 
into  their  own  peculiar  and  adopted  form. 

This  force,  now  properly  called  life,  or 
breathing,  or  spirit,  is  continually  creating 
its  own  shell  of  definite  shape  out  of  the 
wreck  round  it  ; and  this  is  what  I meant  by 
saying,  in  the  Ethics  of  the  Dust,"  ^‘you 
may  always  stand  by  form  against  force." 
For  the  mere  force  of  junction  is  not  spirit ; 
but  the  power  that  catches  out  of  chaos 
charcoal,  water,  lime,  or  what  not,  and  fas- 
tens them  down  into  a given  form,  is  properly 
called  spirit ; " and  we  shall  not  diminish, 
but  strengthen  our  conception  of  this  creative 
energy  by  recognizing  its  presence  in  lower 
states  of  matter  than  our  own  ; such  recogni- 
tion being  enforced  upon  us  by  delight  we  in- 


®be  (Slueen  of  tbe 


97 


stinctively  receive  from  all  the  forms  of  mat- 
ter which  manifest  it ; and  yet  more,  by  the 
glorifying  of  those  forms,  in  the  parts  of 
them  that  are  most  animated,  with  the  colors 
that  are  pleasantest  to  our  senses.  The  most 
familiar  instance  of  this  is  the  best,  and  also 
the  most  wonderful : the  blossoming  of  plants. 

6o.  The  spirit  in  the  plant — that  is  to  say, 
its  power  of  gathering  dead  matter  out  of 
the  wreck  round  it,  and  shaping  it  into  its 
own  chosen  shape — is  of  course  strongest  at 
the  moment  of  its  flowering,  for  it  then  not 
only  gathers,  but  forms,  with  the  greatest 
energy. 

And  where  this  life  is  in  it  at  full  power, 
its  form  becomes  invested  with  aspects  that 
are  chiefly  delightful  to  our  own  human 
passions ; namely,  first,  with  the  loveliest 
outlines  of  shape  ; and,  secondly,  with  the 
most  brilliant  phases  of  the  primary  colors, 
blue,  yellow,  and  red  or  white,  the  unison 
of  all ; and,  to  make  it  all  more  strange,  this 
time  of  peculiar  and  perfect  glory  is  associ- 
ated with  relations  of  the  plants  or  blossoms 
to  each  other,  correspondent  to  the  joy  of 
love  in  human  creatures,  and  having  the 
same  object  in  the  continuance  of  the  raca 
7 


98  TLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  2lfn 

Only,  with  respect  to  plants,  as  animals, 
are  wrong  in  speaking  as  if  the  object  of 
this  strong  life  were  only  the  bequeathing  of 
itself.  The  flower  is  the  end  or  proper  ob- 
ject of  the  seed,  not  the  seed  of  the  flower. 
The  reason  for  seeds  is  that  flowers  may 
be ; not  the  reason  of  flowers  that  seeds 
may  be.  The  flower  itself  is  the  creature 
which  the  spirit  makes  ; only,  in  connection 
with  its  perfectness  is  placed  the  giving  birth 
to  its  successor. 

61.  The  main  fact,  then,  about  a flower 
is  that  it  is  the  part  of  the  plant’s  form  de- 
veloped at  the  moment  of  its  intensest  life  ; 
and  this  inner  rapture  is  usually  marked 
externally  for  us  by  the  flush  of  one  or  more 
of  the  primary  color®.  What  the  character 
of  the  flower  shall  be,  depends  entirely  upon 
the  portion  of  the  plant  into  which  this  rapt- 
ure of  spirit  has  been  put.  Sometimes  the 
life  is  put  into  its  outer  sheath,  and  then  the 
outer  sheath  becomes  white  and  pure,  and 
full  of  strength  and  grace  ; sometimes  the 
life  is  put  into  the  common  leaves,  just  un- 
der the  blossom,  and  they  become  scarlet  or 
purple  ; sometimes  the  life  is  put  into  the 
stalks  of  the  flower  and  they  flush  blue; 


Zbc  (Slueen  ot  tbe  Bit* 


99 


sometimes  into  its  outer  enclosure  or  calyx ; 
mostly  into  its  inner  cup  ; but,  in  all  cases, 
the  presence  of  the  strongest  life  is  asserted 
by  characters  in  which  the  human  sight 
takes  pleasure,  and  which  seem  prepared 
with  distinct  reference  to  us,  or  rather,  bear, 
in  being  delightful,  evidence  of  having  beei> 
produced  by  the  power  of  the  same  spirit  a^ 
our  own. 

62.  And  we  are  led  to  feel  this  still  more 
strongly  because  all  the  distinctions  of  spe- 
cies,* both  in  pla^nts  and  animals,  appear  to 
have  similar  connection  with  human  char- 
acter. Whatever  the  origin  of  species  may 
be,  or  however  those  species,  once  formed, 
may  be  influenced  by  external  accident,  the 
groups  into  which  birth  or  accident  reduce 
them  have  distinct  relation  to  the  spirit  of 
man.  It  is  perfectly  possible,  and  ultimately 

* The  facts  on  which  I am  about  to  dwell  are  in  no- 
wise antagonistic  to  the  theories  which  Mr.  Darwin’s 
unwearied  and  unerring  investigations  are  every  day 
rendering  more  probable.  The  aesthetic  relations  of 
species  are  independent  of  their  origin.  Nevertheless, 
it  has  always  seemed  to  me,  in  what  little  work  I have 
done  upon  organic  forms,  as  if  the  species  mocked  us 
by  their  deliberate  imitation  of  each  other  when  they 
met ; yet  did  not  pass  one  into  another. 


100 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Mit. 


conceivable,  that  the  crocodile  and  the  lamb 
may  have  descended  from  the  same  ances- 
tral atom  of  protoplasm  ; and  that  the  phys- 
ical laws  of  the  operation  of  calcareous  slime 
and  of  meadow  grass,  on  that  protoplasm, 
may  in  time  have  developed  the  opposite 
natures  and  aspects  of  the  living  frames  ; but 
the  practically  important  fact  for  us  is  the 
existence  of  a power  which  creates  that  cal- 
careous earth  itself, — which  creates,  that 
separately — and  quartz,  separately  ; and 
gold,  separately  ; and  charcoal,  separately  ; 
and  then  so  directs  the  relation  of  these  ele- 
ments as  that  the  gold  shall  destroy  the  souls 
of  men  by  being  yellow ; and  the  charcoal 
destroy  their  souls  by  being  hard  and  bright  ; 
and  the  quartz  represent  to  them  an  ideal 
purity  ; and  the  calcareous  earth,  soft,  shall 
beget  crocodiles,  and  dry  and  hard,  sheep  ; 
and  that  the  aspects  and  qualities  of  these 
two  products,  crocodiles  and  lambs,  shall  be, 
the  one  repellent  to  the  spirit  of  man,  the 
other  attractive  to  it,  in  a quite  inevitable 
way ; representing  to  him  states  of  moral 
evil  and  good  ; and  becoming  myths  to  him 
of  destruction  or  redemption,  and,  in  the 
most  literal  sense,  words ''  of  God. 


XLbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe  Bir* 


lOl 


63.  And  the  force  of  these  facts  cannot 
be  escaped  from  by  the  thought  that  there 
are  species  innumerable,  passing  into  each 
other  by  regular  gradations,  out  of  which  we 
choose  what  we  must  love  or  dread,  and  say 
they  were  indeed  prepared  for  us.  Species 
are  not  innumerable ; neither  are  they  now 
connected  by  consistent  gradation.  They 
touch  at  certain  points  oiily  ; and  even  then 
are  connected,  when  we  examine  them 
deeply,  in  a kind  of  reticulated  way,  not  in 
chains,  but  in  chequers  ; also,  however  con- 
nected, it  is  but  by  a touch  of  the  extremities, 
as  it  were,  and  the  characteristic  form  of 
the  species  is  entirely  individual.  The  rose 
nearly  sinks  into  a grass  in  the  sanguisorba  ; 
but  the  formative  spirit  does  not  the  less 
clearly  separate  the  ear  of  wheat  from  the 
dog-rose,  and  oscillate  with  tremulous  con- 
stancy round  the  central  forms  of  both,  hav- 
ing each  their  due  relation  to  the  mind  of 
man.  The  great  animal  kingdoms  are  con^ 
nected  in  the  same  way.  The  bird  through 
the  penguin  drops  towards  the  fish,  and  the 
fish  in  the  cetacean  reascends  to  the  mam- 
mal, yet  there  is  no  confusion  of  thought 
possible  between  the  perfect  forms  of  an 


102 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bir* 


eagle,  a trout,  and  a war-horse,  in  their 
relations  to  the  elements,  and  to  man. 

64.  Now  we  have  two  orders  of  .animals  to 
take  some  note  of  in  connection  with  Athena, 
and  one  vast  order  of  plants,  which  will 
illustrate  this  matter  very  sufficiently  for  us. 

The  orders  of  animals  are  the  serpent  and 
the  bird  : the  serpent,  in  which  the  breath  or 
spirit  is  less  than  in  any  other  creature,  and 
the  earth-power  greatest ; the  bird,  in  which 
the  breath  or  spirit  is  more  full  than  in  any 
other  creature,  and  the  earth-power  least. 

*65.  We  will  take  the  bird  first.  It  is  little 
more  than  a drift  of  the  air  brought  into 
form  by  plumes  ; the  air  is  in  all  its  quills,  it 
breathes  through  its  whole  frame  and  flesh 
and  glows  with  air  in  its  flying,  like  blown 
flarqes  ; it  rests  upon  the  air,  subdues  it,  sur- 
passes it,  outraces  it, — ts  the  air,  conscious 
of  itself,  conquei^ng  itself,  ruling  itself. 

Also,  in  the  throat  of  the  bird  is  given  the 
voice  of  the  air.  All  that  in  the  wind  itself 
is  weak,  wild,  useless  in  sweetness,  is  knit 
together  in  its  song.  As  we  may  imagine 
the  wild  form  of  the  cloud  closed  into  the 
perfect  form  of  the  bird’s  wings,  so  the  wild 
voice  of  the  cloud  into  its  ordered  and  com- 


XLhc  (aueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


103 


manded  voice  ; unwearied,  rippling  through 
the  clear  heaven  in  its  gladness,  interpreting 
all  intense  passion  through  the  soft  spring 
nights,  bursting  into  acclaim  and  rapture  of 
choir  at  daybreak,  or  lisping  and  twittering 
among  the  boughs  and  hedges  through  heat 
of  day,  like  little  winds  that  only  make  the 
cowslip  bells  shake,  and  ruffle  the  petals  of 
the  wild  rose. 

66.  Also,  upon  the  plumes  of  the  bird  are 
put  the  colors  of  the  air  ; on  these  the  gold 
of  the  cloud,  that  cannot  be  gathered  by  any 
covetousness  ; the  rubies  of  the  clouds,  that 
are  not  the  price  of  Athena,  but  are  Athena  ; 
the  Vermillion  of  the  cloud-bar,  and  the 
flame  of  the  cloud-crest,  and  the  snow  of  the 
cloud,  and  its  shadow,  and  the  melted  blue 
of  the  deep  wells  of  the  sky, — all  these, 
seized  by  the  creating  spirit,  and  woven  by 
Athena  herself  into  films  and  threads  of 
plume  ; with  wave  on  wave'  following  and 
fading  along  breast,  and  throat,  and  opened 
wings,  infinite  as  the  dividing  of  the  foam 
and  the  sifting  of  the  sea-sand  ; even  the 
white  down  of  the  cloud  seeming  to  flutter 
up  between  the  stronger  plumes,— seen,  but 
too  soft  for  touch. 


104 


tTbe  (Slueen  ot  tbe  Hlr* 


And  so  the  Spirit  of  the  Air  is  put  into,  and 
upon,  this  created  form  ; and  it  becomes, 
through  twenty  centuries,  the  symbol  of 
divine  help,  descending,  as  the  Fire,  to  speak 
but  as  the  Dove,  to  bless. 

67.  Next,  in  the  serpent  we  approach  the 
source  of  a group  of  myths,  world-wide, 
founded  on  great  and  common  human 
instincts,  respecting  which  I must  note  one 
or  two  points  which  bear  intimately  on  all 
our  subject.  For  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
scholars  who  are  at  present  occupied  in 
interpretation  of  human  myths  have  most  of 
them  forgotten  that  there  are  any  such  thing 
as  natural  myths,  and  that  the  dark  sayings 
of  men  may  be  both  difficult  to  read,  and 
not  always  worth  reading,  but  the  dark  say- 
ings of  nature  will  probably  become  clearer 
for  the  looking  into,  and  will  very  cer- 
tainly be  worth  reading.  And,  indeed,  all 
guidance  to  the  right  sense  of  the  human  and 
variable  myths  will  probably  depend  on  our 
first  getting  at  the  se^se  of  the  natural  and 
invariable  ones.  The  dead  hieroglyph  may 
have  meant  this  or  that ; the  living  hiero- 
glyph means  always  the  same ; but  remem- 
ber, it  is  just  as  much  a hieroglyph  as  the 


tCbe  dueen  of  tbe  Bfn 


loS 

other;  nay,  more, — a ^‘sacred  or  reserved 
sculpture, a thing  with  an  inner  language. 
The  serpent  crest  of  the  king  s crown,  or  of 
the  god’s,  on  the  pillars  of  Egypt,  is  a mys- 
tery, but  the  serpent  itself,  gliding  past  the 
pillar’s  foot,  is  it  less  a mystery  ? Is  there, 
indeed,  no  tongue,  except  the  mute  forked 
flash  from  its  lips,  in  that  running  brook  of 
horror  on  the  ground? 

68.  Why  that  horror?  We  all  feel  it,  yet 
how  imaginative  it  is,  how  disproportioned 
to  the  real  strength  of  the  creature  ! There 
is  more  poison  in  an  ill-kept  drain,  in  a pool 
of  dish-washing  at  a cottage  door,  than  in 
the  deadliest  asp  of  Nile.  Every  back  yard 
which  you  look  down  into  from  the  railway 
as  it  carries  you  out  by  Vauxhall  or  Dept- 
ford, holds  its  coiled  serpent  ; all  the  walls 
of  those  ghastly  suburbs  are  enclosures  of 
tank  temples  for  serpent  worship;  yet  you 
feel  no  horror  in  looking  down  into  them 
as  you  would  if  you  saw  the  livid  scales,  and 
lifted  head.  There  is  more  venom,  mortal, 
inevitable,  in  a single  word,  sometimes,  or 
in  the  gliding  entrance  of  a wordless  thought 
than  ever  ‘‘vanti  Libia  con  sua  rena.”  But 
that  horror  is  of  the  myth,  not  of  the  creat- 


io6  XLbc  (Siueen  of  tbe  Bit* 

ure.  There  are  myriads  lower  than  this,  and 
moTi,  loathsome,  in  the  scale  of  being  ; the 
finks  between  dead  matter  and  animation 
drift  everywhere  unseen.  But  it  is  the 
strength  of  the  base  element  that  is  so  dread- 
ful in  the  serpent ; it  is  the  very  omnipo- 
tence of  the  earth.  That  rivulet  of  smooth 
silver,  how  does  it  flow,  think  you  ? It  lit- 
erally rows  on  the  earth,  with  every  scale  for 
an  oar ; it  bites  the  dust  with  the  ridges  of 
its  body.  Watch  it,  when  it  moves  slowly. 
A wave,  but  without  wind ! a current,  but 
with  no  fall  ! all  the  body  moving  at  the 
same  instant,  yet  some  of  it  to  one  side, 
some  to  another,  or  some  forward,  and  the 
rest  of  the  coil  backwards,  but  all  with  the 
same  calm  will  and  equal  way,  no  contrac- 
tion, no  extension  ; one  soundless,  cause- 
less, march  of  sequent  rings,  and  spectral 
processions  of  spotted  dust,  with  dissolution 
in  its  fangs,  dislocation  in  its  coils.  Startle 
it,  the  winding  stream  will  become  a twisted 
arrow  ; the  wave  of  poisoned  life  will  lash 
through  the  grass  like  a cast  lance.*  It 

* I cannot  understand  this  swift  forward  motion  of 
serpents.  The  seizure  of  prjey  by  the  constrictor,  though 
invisibly  swift,  is  quite  simple  in  mechanism  j it  is  sim- 


XLbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe  Uk. 


107 

scarcely  breathes  with  its  one  lung  (the 
other  shrivelled  and  abortive)  ; it  is  passive 
to  the  sun  and  shade,  and  is  cold  or  hot 
like  a stone;  yet  ^'it  can  outclimb  the 
monkey,  outswim  the  fish,  outleap  the  zebra, 
outwrestle  the  athlete,  and  crush  the  tiger/’"^ 
It  is  a divine  hieroglyph  of  the  demoniac 
power  of  the  earth,  of  the  entire  earthly 
nature.  As  the  bird  is  the  clothed  power  of 
the  air,  so  this  is  the  clothed  power  of  the 
dust ; as  the  bird  the  symbol  of  the  spirit  of 
life,  so  this  of  the  grasp  and  sting  of  death. 

69.  Hence  the  continual  change  in  the 
interpretation  put  upon  it  in  various  relig- 

ply  the  return  to  its  coil  of  an  opened  watch-spring,  and 
is  just  as  instantaneous.  But  the  steady  and  contin- 
uous motion,  without  a visible  fulcrum  (for  the  whole 
body  moves  at  the  same  instant,  and  I have  often  seen 
even  small  snakes  glide  as  fast  as  I could  walk),  seems 
to  involve  a vibration  of  the  scales  quite  too  rapid  to  be 
conceived.  The  motion  of  the  crest  and  dorsal  fin  of 
the  hippocampus,  which  is  one  of  the  intermediate  types 
between  serpent  and  fish,  perhaps  gives  some  resem- 
blance of  it,  dimly  visible,  for  the  quivering  turns  tbe 
fin  into  a mere  mist.  The  entrance  of  the  two  barbs  of 
a bee’s  sting  by  alternate  motion,  “ the  teeth  of  one 
barb  acting  as  a fulcrum  for  the  other,”  must  be  some' 
thing  like  the  serpent  motion  on  a small  scale. 

* Richard  Owen. 


io8  ^bc  (Sluecn  ot  tbe  Bit* 

ions.  As  the  worm  of  corruption,  it  is  the 
mightiest  of  all  adversaries  of  the  gods — the 
special  adversary  of  their  light  and  creative 
power — Python  against  Apollo.  As  the 
power  of  the  earth  against  the  air,  the  giants 
are  serpent-bodied  in  the  Gigantomachia ; 
but  as  the  power  of  the  earth  upon  the  seed — 
consuming  it  into  new  life  ( ' ' that  which  thou 
sowest  is  not  quickened  except  it  die  — ser- 
pents sustain  the  chariot  of  the  spirit  of 
agriculture. 

70.  Yet  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  a 
power  in  the  earth  to  take  away  corruption, 
and  to  purify  (hence  the  very  fact  of  burial, 
and  many  uses  of  earth,  only  lately  known)  : 
and  in  this  sense  the  serpent  is  a heal- 
ing spirit, — the  representative  of  i^lscula- 
pius,  and  of  Hygieia ; and  is  a sacred  earth- 
type  in  the  temple  of  the  Dew,  being  there 
especially  a symbol  of  the  native  earth  of 
Athens  ; so  that  its  departure  from  the  tem- 
ple was  a sign  to  the  Athenians  that  they 
were  to  leave  their  homes.  And  then,  lastly, 
as  there  is  a strength  and  healing  in  the 
earth,  no  less  than  the  strength  of  air,  so 
there  is  conceived  to  be  a wisdom  of  earth 
no  less  than  a wisdom  of  the  spirit ; and 


Zbc  (Slucen  of  tbe  2lir. 


109 

when  its  deadly  power  is  killed,  its  guiding 
power  becomes  true ; so  that  the  Python 
serpent  is  killed  at  Delphi,  where  yet  the 
oracle  is  from  the  breath  of  the  earth. 

71.  You  must  remember,  however,  that 
in  this,  as  in  every  other  instance,  I take 
the  myth  at  its  central  time.  This  is  only 
the  meaning  of  the  serpent  to  the  Greek 
mind  which  could  conceive  an  Athena.  Its 
first  meaning  to  the  nascent  eyes  of  men, 
and  its  continued  influence  over  degraded 
races,  are  subjects  of  the  most  fearful 
mystery.  Mr.  Fergusson  has  just  collected 
the  principal  evidence  bearing  on  the  matter 
in  a work  of  very  great  value,  and  if  you 
read  lis  opening  chapters,  they  will  put  you 
in  possession  of  the  circumstances  needing 
chiefly  to  be  considered.  I cannot  touch 
upon  any  of  them  here,  except  only  to  point 
out  that,  though  the  doctrine  of  the  so-called 
‘‘corruption  of  human  nature,"'  asserting 
that  there  is  nothing  but  evil  in  humanity, 
is  just  as  blasphemous  and  false  as  a doc- 
trine of  the  corruption  of  physical  nature 
would  be,  asserting  there  was  nothing  but 
evil  in  the  earth, — there  is  yet  the  clearest 
evidence  of  a disease,  plague^  or  cretin- 


no 


^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


ous  imperfection  of  development,  hitherto 
allowed  to  prevail  against  the  greater  part 
of  the  races  of  men  ; and  this  in  monstrous 
ways,  more  full  of  mystery  than  the  serpent- 
being itself.  I have  gathered  for  you  to- 
night only  instances  of  what  is  beautiful  in 
Greek  religion  ; but  even  in  its  best  time 
there  were  deep  corruptions  in  other  phases 
of  it,  and  degraded  forms  of  many  of  its 
deities,  all  originating  in  a misunderstood 
worship  of  the  principle  of  life  ; while  in  the 
religions  of  lower  races,  little  less  than 
these  corrupted  forms  of  devotion  can  be 
found,  all  having  a strange  and  dreadful 
consistency  with  each  other,  and  infe-^ting 
Christianity,  even  at  its  strongest  pei  )ds, 
with  fatal  terror  of  doctrine,  and  ghastliness 
of  symbolic  conception,  passing  through 
fear  into  frenzied  grotesque,  and  thence  into 
sensuality. 

In  the  Psalter  of  St.  Louis  itself,  half  of 
its  letters  are  twisted  snakes ; there  is 
scarcely  a wreathed  ornament,  employed 
in  Christian  dress,  or  architecture,  which 
cannot  be  traced  back  to  the  serpent’s  coil  ; 
and  there  is  rarely  a piece  of  monkish 
decorated  writing  in  the  world  that  is  not 


tTbe  (auecn  of  tbe  m 

tainted  with  some  ill-meant  vileness  of  gro- 
tesque,— nay,  the  very  leaves  of  the  twisted 
ivy-pattern  of  the  fourteenth  century  can  be 
followed  back  to  wreaths  for  the  foreheads 
of  bacchanalian  gods.  And  truly,  it  seems 
to  me,  as  I gather  in  my  mind  the  evidences 
of  insane  religion,  degraded  art,  merciless 
war,  sullen  toil,  detestable  pleasure,  and 
vain  or  vile  hope,  in  which  the  nations  of 
the  world  have  lived  since  first  they  coul(^ 
bear  record  of  themselves — it  seems  to  me 
I say,  as  if  the  n^ce  itself  were  still  half* 
serpent,  not  extricated  yet  from  its  clay  ; a 
lacertine  breed  of  bitterness — the  glory  of  if- 
emaciate  with  cruel  hunger,  and  blotted 
with  venomous  stain  ; and  the  track  of  it, 
on  the  leaf  a glittering  slime,  and  in  the 
sand  a useless  furrow. 

72.  There  are  no  myths,  therefore,  by 
which  the  moral  state  and  fineness  of  intel- 
ligence of  different  races  can  be  so  deeply 
fried  or  measured,  as  by  those  of  the  ser- 
pent and  the  bird  ; both  of  them  having  an 
especial  relation  to  the  kind  of  remorse  for 
sin,  or  for  grief  in  fate,  of  which  the  national 
minds  that  spoke  by  them  had  been  capa- 
ble. The  serpent  and  vulture  are  alike 


1 12  ^be  (Sluecn  of  tbe  Bin 

emblems  of  immortality  and  purification 
among-  races  which  desired  to  be  immortal 
and  pure  ; and  as  they  recognize  their  own 
misery,  the  “serpent  becomes  to  them  the 
scourge  of  the  Furies,  and  the  vulture  finds 
its  eternal  prey  in  their  breast.  The  bird 
long  contests  among  the  Egyptians  with  the 
still  received  serpent  symbol  of  power.  But 
the  Draconian  image  of  evil  is  established  in 
the  serpent  Apap  ; while  the  bird's  wings, 
with  the  globe,  become  part  of  a better 
symbol  of  deity,  and  the  entire  form  of  the 
vulture,  as  an  emblem  of  purification,  is 
associated  with  the  earliest  conception  of 
Athena.  In  the  type  of  the  dove  with  the 
olive  branch,  the  conception  of  the  spirit  of 
Athena  in  renewed  life  prevailing  over  ruin  is 
embodied  for  the  whole  of  futurity;  while  the 
Greeks,  to  whom,  in  a happier  climate  and 
higher  life  than  that  of  Egypt,  the  vulture 
symbol  of  cleansing  became  unintelligible,, 
took  the  eagle  instead  for  their  hieroglyph 
of  supreme  spiritual  energy,  and  it  thence- 
forward retains  its  hold  on  the  human  imag- 
ination, till  it  is  established  among  Christian 
myths  as  the  expression  of  the  most  exalted 
form  of  evangelistic  teaching.  The  special 


XCbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bln  113 

relation  of  Athena  to  her  favorite  bird  we  will 
trace  presently ; the  peacock  of  Hera,  and 
dove  of  Aphrodite,  are  comparatively  unim- 
portant myths  ; but  the  bird  power  is  soon 
made  entirely  human  by  the  Greeks  in  their 
flying  angel  of  victory  (partially  human, 
with  modified  meaning  of  evil,  in  the  Harpy 
and  Siren)  ; and  thenceforward  it  associates 
itself  with  the  Hebrew  cherubim,  and  has 
had  the  most  singular  influence  on  the 
Christian  religion  by  giving  its  wings  to 
render  the  conception  of  angels  mysterious 
and  untenable,  and  check  rational  endeavor 
to  determine  the  nature  of  s bordinate 
spiritual  agency ; while  yet  it  has  given  to 
that  agency  a vague  poetical  influence  of 
the  highest  value  in  its  own  imaginative 
way. 

73.  But  with  the  early  serpent-worship 
there  was  associated  another,  that  of  the 
groves,  of  which  you  will  also  find  the 
evidence  exhaustively  collected  in  Mr.  Fer- 
gusson's  'work.  This  tree-worship  may 
have  taken  a dark  form  when  associated 
with  the  Draconian  one ; or  opposed,  as  in 
Judea,  to  a purer  faith  ; but  in  itself,  I be- 
lieve, it  was  always  healthy,  and  though  it 


(Tbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  air* 


114 

retains  little  definite  hieroglyphic  power  in 
subsequent  religion,  it  becomes,  instead  of 
symbolic,  real  ; the  flowers  and  trees  are 
themselves  beheld  and  beloved  with  a half- 
worshipping delight,  which  is  always  noble 
and  healthful. 

And  it  is  among  the  most  notable  indica- 
tions of  the  volition  of  the  animating  power 
that  we  find  the  ethical  signs  of  good  and 
evil  set  on  these  also,  as  well  as  upon 
animals ; the  venom  of  the  serpent,  and 
in  some  respects  its  image  also,  being  asso- 
ciated even  with  the  passionless  growth  of 
the  leaf  out  of  the  ground  ; while  the  dis- 
tinctions of  species  seem  appointed  with 
more  definite  ethical  address  to  the  intelli- 
gence of  man  as  their  material  products  be- 
come more  useful  to  him. 

• 74.  I can  easily  show  this,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  make  clear  the  relation  to  other 
plants  of  the  flowers  which  especially  belong 
to  Athena,  by  examining  the  natural  myths 
in  the  groups  of  the  plants  which*  would  be 
used  at  any  country  dinner,  over  which 
Athena  would,  in  her  simplest  household  au- 
thority, cheerfully  rule  here  in  England. 
Suppose  Horace's  favorite  dish  of  beans, 


XTbe  (aueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


“5 


with  the  bacon  ; potatoes ; some  savory 
stuffing  of  onions  and  herbs,  with  the  meat ; 
celery,  and  a radish  or  two,  with  the  cheese  ; 
nuts  and  apples  for  dessert,  and  brown  bread. 

75.  The  beans  are,  from  earliest  time, 
the  most  important  and  interesting  of  the 
seeds  of  the  great  tribe  of  plants  from  which 
came  the  Latin  and  French  name  for  all 
kitchen  vegetables, — things  that  are  gathered 
with  the  hand — podded  seeds  that  cannot 
be  reaped,  or  beaten,  or  shaken  down,  but 
must  be  gathered  green.  ‘‘Leguminous"' 
plants,  all  of  them  having  flowers  like  butter- 
flies, seeds  in  (frequently  pendent)  pods, — 
“ laetum  siliqua  quassante  legumen  " — 
smooth  and  tender  leaves,  divided  into 
many  minor  ones  ; strange  adjuncts  of  ten- 
dril, for  climbing  (and  sometimes  of  thorn)  ; 
exquisitely  sweet,  yet  pure  scents  of  blos- 
som, and  almost  always  harmless,  if  not 
serviceable  seeds.  It  is  of  all  tribes  of 
plants  the  most  definite,  its  blossoms  being 
entirely  limited  in  their  parts,  and  not  pass- 
ing into  other  forms.  It  is  also  the  most 
usefully  extended  in  range  and  scale ; famil- 
iar in  the  height  of  the  forest— acacia,  labur- 
num, Judas-tree  ; familiar  in  the  sown  field 


ii6  XEbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bin 

—bean  and  vetch  and  pea  ; familiar  in  the 
pasture — in  every  form  of  clustered  clover 
and  sweet  trefoil  tracery ; the  most  entirely 
serviceable  and  human  of  all  orders  of 
plants. 

76.  Next,  in  the  potato,  we  have  the 
scarcely  innocent  underground  stem  of  one 
of  a tribe  set  aside  for  evil ; having  the  deadly 
nightshade  for  its  queen,  and  including  the 
henban  , the  witch's  mandrake,  and  the 
worst  natural  ^urse  f modern  civilization — 
tobacco.  * And  the  strange  thing  about  this 
tribe  is,  that  though  thus  set  aside  for  evil, 
they  are  not  a group  distinctly  separate  from 
those  that  are  happier  in  function.  There 
is  nothing  in  other  tribes  of  plants  like  the 
form  of  the  bean  blossom;  but  there  is 
another  family  with  forms  and  structure 
closely  connected  with  this  venomous  one. 
Examine  the  purple  and  yellow  bloom  of 
the  common  hedge  nightshade  ; you  will 
find  it  constructed  exactly  like  some  of  the 
forms  of  the  cyclamen  ; and,  getting  this 
clue,  you  will  find  at  last  the  whole  poison- 

* It  is  not  easy  to  estimate  the  demoralizing  effect 
on  the  youth  of  Europe  of  the  cigar,  in  enabling  them 
to  pass  theif  time  happily  in  idleness. 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbc  117 

ous  and  terrible  group  to  be — sisters  of  the 
primulas  ! 

The  nightshades  are,  in  fact,  primroses 
with  a curse  upon  them  ; and  a sign  set  in 
their  petals,  by  which  the  deadly  and  con- 
demned flowers  may  always  be  known  from 
the  innocent  ones, — that  the  stamens  of  the 
nightshades  are  between  the  lobes,  and  of 
the  primulas,  opposite  the  lobes,  of  the 
corolla. 

77.  Next,  side  by  side,  in  the  celery  and 
radish,  you  have  the  two  great  groups  of 
unbelled  and  cruciferous  plants ; alike  in 
conditions  of  rank  among  herbs  : both 
flowering  in  clusters ; but  the  unbelled 
group,  flat,  the  crucifers,  in  spires  : both  of 
them  mean  and  poor  in  the  blossom,  and 
losing  what  beauty  they  have  by  too  close 
crowding  ; both  of  them  having  the  most 
curious  influence  on  human  character  in  the 
temperate  zones  of  the  earth,  from  the  d.^ys 
of  the  parsley  crown,  and  hemlock  Tink, 
and  mocked  Euripidean  chervil,  until  now  ; 
but  chiefly  among  the  northern  nations, 
being  especially  plants  that  are  of  some 
humble  beauty,  and  (the  crucifers)  of  endless 
’•se,  when  they  are  chosen  and  cultivated; 


ii8  XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Blr* 

but  that  run  to  wild  waste,  and  are  the  signs 
of  neglected  ground,  in  their  rank  or  ragged 
leaves  and  meagre  stalks,  and  pursed  or 
podded  seed  clusters.  Capable,  even  under 
cultivation,  of  no  perfect  beauty,  though 
reaching  some  subdued  delightfulness  in  the 
lady’s  smock  and  the  wallflower;  for  the 
most  part  they  have  every  floral  quality 
meanly,  and  in  vain, — they  are  white  with- 
out purity ; golden,  without  preciousness  ; 
redundant,  without  richness ; divided,  with- 
out fineness  ; massive,  without  strength  ; 
and  slendfer,  without  grace.  Yet  think  over 
that  useful  vulgarity  of  theirs  ; and  of  the 
relations  of  German  and  English  peasant 
character  t its  food  of  kraut  and  cabbage 
(a  of  Arub  character  to  its  food  of  palm- 
fruit),  and  you  will  begin  to  feel  what  pur- 
poses of  the  forming  spirit  are  in  these  dis- 
tinctions of  species. 

78.  Next  we  take  the  nuts  and  apples, — 
the  nuts  representing  one  of  the  groups 
of  catkined  tr  es,  whose  blossoms  are  only 
tufts  and  dust  ; a d the  other,  the  rose  tribe, 
in  which  fruit  and  flower  alike  have  been 
the  types  t^^  the  highest  races  of  men,  of  all 
passionate  temptation,  or  pure  delight,  from 


XTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  119 

the  coveting  of  Eve  to  the  crowning  of  the 
Madonna,  above  the 

“ Rosa  sempiterna, 

Che  si  dilata,  rigrada,  e ridole 
Odor  di  lode  al  Sol/' 

We  have  no  time  now  for  these,  we  must  go 
on  to  the  humblest  group  of  all,  yet  the  most 
wonderful,  that  of  the  grass  which  has  given 
us  our  bread ; and  from  that  we  will  go  back 
to  the  herbs. 

79.  The  vast  family  of  plants  which, 
under  rain,  make  the  earth  green  for  man, 
and,  under  sunshine,  give  him  bread,  and, 
in  their  springing  in  the  early  year,  mixed 
with  their  native  flowers,  have  given  us  (far 
more  than  the  new  leaves  of  trees)  the 
thought  and  word  of  spring,''  divide  them- 
selves broadly  into  three  great  groups — the 
grasses,  sedges,  and  rushes.  The  grasses 
are  essentially  a clothing  for  healthy  and 
pure  ground,  watered  by  occasional  rain, 
but  in  itself  dry,  and  fit  for  all  cultivated 
pasture  and  corn.  They  are  distinctively 
plants  with  round  and  jointed  stems,  which 
have  long  green  flexible  leaves,  and  heads 


120 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Uiu 


of  seed,  independently  emerging  from 
them.  The  sedges  are  essentially  the  cloth- 
ing of  waste  and  more  or  less  poor  or  uncul- 
tivated soils,  coarse  in  their  structure,  fre- 
quently triangular  in  stem — hence  called 
‘'acute''  by  Virgil — and  with  their  heads  of 
seed  not  extricated  from  their  leaves.  Now, 
in  both  the  sedges  and  grasses,  the  blossom 
has  a common  structure,  though  un- 
developed in  the  sedges,  but  composed 
always  of  groups  of  double  husks,  which 
have  mostly  a spinous  process  in  the  centre, 
sometimes  projecting  into  a long  awn  or 
beard  ; this  central  process  being  character- 
istic also  of  the  ordinary  leaves  of  mosses, 
as  if  a moss  were  a kind  of  ear  of  corn  made 
permanently  green  on  the  ground,  and  with 
a new  and  distinct  fructification.  But  the 
rushes  differ  wholly  from  the  sedge  and 
grass  in  their  blossom  structure.  It  is  not 
a dual  cluster,  but  a twice  threefold  one,  so 
far  separate  from  the  grasses,  and  so  closely 
connected  with  a higher  order  of  plants,  that 
I think  you  will  find  it  convenient  to  group 
the  rushes  at  once  with  that  higher  order,  to 
which,  if  you  will  for  the  present  let  me  give 
the  general  name  of  Drosidae,  or  dew-plants, 


?Ebe  (aueen  of  tbe  Bfr* 


I2I 


it  will  enable  me  to  say  what  I have  to  say 
of  them  much  more  shortly  and  clearly. 

80.  These  Drosidae,  then,  are  plants  de- 
lighting in  interrupted  moisture — moisture 
which  comes  either  partially  or  at  certain 
seasons — into  dry  ground.  They  are  not 
water-plants,  but  the  signs  of  water  resting 
among  dry  places.  Many  of  the  true  water- 
plants  have  triple  blossoms,  with  a small 
triple  calyx  holding  them  ; in  the  Drosidae 
the  floral  spirit  passes  into  the  calyx  also, 
and  the  entire  flower  becomes  a six-rayed 
star,  bursting  out  of  the  stem  laterally,  as  if 
it  were  the  first  of  flowers  and  had  made  its 
way  to  the  light  by  force  through  the  unwill- 
ing green.  They  are  often  required  to  re- 
tain moisture  or  nourishment  for  the  future 
blossom  through  long  times  of  drought ; and 
this  they  do  in  bulbs  under  ground,  of  which 
some  become  a rude  and  simple,  but  most 
wholesome,  food  for  man. 

8 1.  So,  now,  observe,  you  are  to  divide 
the  whole  family  of  the  herbs  of  the  field 
into  three  great  groups, — Drosidae,  Carices,* 

* I think  Carex  will  be  found  ultimately  better  than 
Cyperus  for  the  generic  name,  being  the  Vergiliau 
word,  and  representing  a larger  sub-species. 


122  ITbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Uit. 

Gramineae, — dew-plants,  sedges,  and  grasses. 
Then  the  Drosidae  are  divided  into  five  great 
orders  : lilies,  asphodels,  amaryllids,  irids, 
and  rushes.  No  tribes  of  flowers  have  had 
so  great,  so  varied,  or  so  healthy  an  influ- 
ence on  man  as  this  great  group  of  Drosidae, 
depending,  not  so  much  on  the  whiteness 
of  some  of  their  blossoms,  or  the  radiance 
of  others,  as  on  the  strength  and  delicacy 
of  the  substance  of  their  petals ; enabling 
them  to  take  forms  of  faultfess  elastic  curva- 
ture, either  in  cups,  as  the  crocus,  or  expand- 
ing bells,  as  the  true  lily,  or  heath-like  bells, 
as  the  hyacinth,  or  bright  and  perfect  stars, 
like  the  star  of  Bethlehem,  or,  when  they 
are  affected  by  the  strange  reflex  of  the  ser- 
pent nature  which  forms  the  labiate  group 
of  all  flowers,  closing  into  forms  of  exqui- 
sitely fantastic  symmetry  in  the  gladiolus. 
Put  by  their  side  their  Nereid  sisters,  the 
water-lilies,  and  you  have  in  them  the  ori- 
gin of  the  loveliest  forms  of  ornamental  de- 
sign,. and  the  most  powerful  floral  myths 
yet  recognized  among  human  spirits,  born 
by  the  streams  of  Ganges,  Nile,  Arno,  and 
Avon. 

82.  For  consider  a little  what  each  of 


Zbc  (Siueen  of  tbe  Uiv< 


123 


those  five  tribes  * has  been  to  the  spirit  of 
man.  First,  in  their,  nobleness,  the  lilies 
gave  the  lily  of  the  Annunciation  ; the  as- 
phodels, the  flower  of  the  Elysian  fields  ; the 
irids,  the  fleur-de-lys  of  chivalry  ; and  the 
amaryllids,  Christ’s  lily  of  the  field  ; while 
the  rush,  trodden  always  under  foot,  became 
the  emblem  of  humility.  Then  take  each 
of  the  tribes,  and  consider  the  extent  of  their 
lower  influence.  Perdita’s  ‘‘ The  crown  im- 
perial, lilies  of  all  kinds,”  are  tke  first  tribe, 
which,  giving  the  type  of  perfect  purity  in 
the  Madonna’s  lily,  have,  by  their  lovely 
form,  influenced  the  entire  decorative  design 
of  Italian  sacred  art ; while  ornament  of  war 
was  continually  enriched  by  the  curves  of 
the  triple  petals  of  the  Florentine  ‘^giglio,  ” 
and  French  fleur-de-lys  ; so  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  count  their  influence  for  good  in  the 
middle  ages,  partly  as  a symbol  of  womanly 
character,  and  partly  of  the  utmost  bright- 

* Take  this  rough  distinction  of  the  four  tribes  : lilies, 
superior  ovary,  white  seeds  ; asphodels,  superior  ovary, 
black  seeds  ; irids,  inferior  ovary,  style  (typically) 
rising  into  central  crest ; amaryllids,  inferior  ovary, 
stamens  (typically)  joined  in  central  cup.  Then  the 
rushes  are  a dark  group,  through  which  they  stoop  to 
the  grasses* 


124 


tLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


ness  and  refinement  of  chivalry  in  the  city 
which  was  the  flower  of  cities. 

Afterwards,  the  group  of  the  turban-lilies, 
or  tulips,  did  some  mischief  (their  splendid 
stains  having  made  them  the  favorite  caprice 
of  florists)  ; but  they  may  be  pardoned  all 
such  guilt  for  the  pleasure  they  have  given 
in  cottage  gardens,  and  are  yet  to  give, 
when  lowly  life  may  again  be  possible 
among  us  ; and  the  crimson  bars  of  the 
tulips  in  their  trim  beds,  with  their  likeness 
in  crimson  bars  of  morning  above  them, 
and  its.  dew  glittering  heavy,  globed  in 
their  glossy  cups,  may  be  loved  better  than 
the  gray  nettles  of  the  ash  heap,  under 
gray  sky,  unveined  by  vermilion  or  by  gold. 

83.  The  next  great  group,  of  the  aspho- 
dels, divides  itself  also  into  two  principal 
families  : one,  in  which  the  flowers  are  like 
stars,  and  clustered  characteristically  in 
balls,  though  opening  sometimes  into  looser 
heads  ; and  the  other,  in  which  the  flowers 
are  in  long  bells,  opening  suddenly  at  the 
lips,  and  clustered  in  spires  on  a long  stem,  or 
drooping  from  it,  when  bent  by  their  weight. 

The  star-group,  of  the  squills,  garlics,  and 
onions,  has  always  caused  me  great  wonder. 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Bfr*  125 

I cannot  understand  why  its  beauty,  and 
serviceableness,  should  have  been  associated 
with  the  rank  scent  which  has  been  really 
among  the  most  powerful  means  of  degrad- 
ing peasant  life,  and  separating  it  from  that 
of  the  higher  classes. 

The  belled  group,  of  the  hyacinth  and 
convallaria,  is  as  delicate  as  the  other  is 
coarse ; the  unspeakable  azure  light  along 
the  ground  of  the  wood  hyacinth  in  English 
spring ; the  grape  hyacinth,  which  is  in  south 
France,  as  if  a cluster  of  grapes  and  a hive 
of  honey  had  been  distilled  and  compressed 
together  into^  one  small  boss  of  celled  and 
beaded  blue  ; the  lilies  of  the  valley  every- 
where, in  each  sweet  and  wild  recess  of 
rocky  lands, — count  the  influences  of  these 
on  childish  and  innocent  life  ; then  measure 
the  mythic  power  of  the  hyacinth  and  as- 
phodel as  connected  with  Greek  thoughts  of 
immortality  ; finally  take  their  usdful  and 
nourishing  power  in  ancient  and  modern 
peasant  life,  and  it  will  be  strange  if  you  do 
not  feel  what  fixed  relation  exists  between 
the  agency  of  the  creating  spirit  in  these, 
and  in  us  who  live  by  them. 

84.  It  is  impossible  to  bring  into  any 


126 


TOe  (aueen  ot  tbe  Hit* 


tenable  compass  for  our  present  purpose, 
even  hints  of  the  human  influence  of  the  two 
remaining  orders  of  Amaryllids  and  Irids  ; 
only  note  this  generally,  that  while  these  in 
northern  countries  share  with  the  Primulas 
the  flelds  of  spring,  it  seems  that  in  Greece, 
the  primulaceae  are  not  an  extended  tribe, 
while  the  crocus,  narcissus,  and  Amaryllis 
lutea,  the  ‘‘  lily  of  the  field”  (I  suspect  also 
that  the  flower  whose  name  we  translate 
“violet”  was  in  truth  an  iris)  represented 
to  the  Greek  the  first  coming  of  the  breath 
of  life  on  the  renewed  herbage  ; and  became 
in  his  thoughts  the  true  embroidery  of  the 
saffron  robe  of  Athena.  Later  in  the  year, 
the  dianthus  (which,  though  belonging  to 
an  entirely  different  race  of  plants,  has  yet 
a strange  look  of  having  been  made  out  of 
the  grasses  by  turning  the  sheath-membrane 
at  the  root  of  their  leaves  into  a flower) 
seems  to  scatter,  in  multitudinous  families, 
its  crimson  stars  far  and  wide.  But  the 
golden  lily  and  crocus,  together  with  the 
asphodel,  retain  always  the  old  Greek's 
fondest  thoughts, — they  are  only  “golden” 
flowers  that  are  to  burn  on  the  trees,  and 
float  on  the  streams  of  paradise. 


tTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  2lfc. 


127 


85.  I ha\^  but  one  tribe  of  plants  more  to 
note  at  our  country  feast — the  savory  herbs  ; 
but  must  go  a little  out  of  my  way  to  come 
at  them  rightly.  All  flowers  whose  petals 
are  fastened  together,  and  most  of  those 
whose  petals  are  loose,  are  best  thought  of 
first  as  a kind  of  cup  or  tube  opening  at 
the  mouth.  Sometimes  the  opening  is  grad- 
ual, as  in  the  convolvulus  or  campanula  ; 
oftener  there  is  a distinct  change  of  direction 
between  the  tube  and  expanding  lip,  as  in 
the  primrose  ; or  even  a contraction  under 
the  lip,  making  the  tube  into  a narrow- 
necked phial  or  vase,  as  in  the  heaths ; 
but  the  general  idea  of  a tube  expanding 
into  a quatrefoil,  cinquefoil,  or  sixfoil,  will 
embrace  most  of  the  forms. 

86.  Now,  it  is  easy  to  conceive  that 
flowers  of  this  kind,  growing  in  close  clus- 
ters, may,  in  process  of  time,  have  extended 
their  outside  petals  rather  than  the  interior 
ones  (as  the  outer  flowers  of  the  clusters  of 
many  umbelMers  a^ctually  do),  and  thus 
elongated  and  variously  distorted  forms 
have  established  themselves  ; then  if  the 
stalk  is  attached  to  the  side  instead  of  the 
base  of  the  tube,  its  base  becomes  a spur, 


128 


(Siueen  of  tbe  Bin 


and  thus  all  the  grotesque  forms  of  the  mints, 
violets,  and  larkspurs,  gradually  might  be 
composed.  But,  however  this  may  be, 
there  is  one  great  tribe  of  plants  separate 
from  the  rest,  and  of  which  the  influence 
seems  shed  upon  the  rest,  in  different  degrees ; 
and  these  would  give  the  impression,  not 
so  much  of  having  been  developed  by 
change,  as  of  being  stamped  with  a char- 
acter of  their  own,  more  or  less  serpen- 
tine or  dragon-like.  And  I think  you  will 
find  it  convenient  to  call  these  generally 
Draconidce  ; disregarding  their  present  ugly 
botanical  name  which  I do  not  care  even  to 
write  once — you  may  take  for  their  princi- 
pal types  the  foxglove,  snapdragon,  and 
dalceolaria ; and  you  will  find  they  all  agree 
in  a tendency  to  decorate  themselves  by 
spots,  and,  with  bosses  or  swollen  places  in 
their  leaves,  as  if  they  had  been  touched  by 
poison.  The  spot  of  the  foxglove  is  espe- 
cially strange,  because  it  draws  the  color  out 
of  the  tissue  all  around  it,  as  if  it  had  been 
stung,  and  as  if  the  central  color  was  really 
an  inflamed  spot,  with  paleness  round. 
Then  also  they  carry  to  its  extreme  the  dec- 
oration by  bulging  or  pouting  the  petal,— 


tibe  (Slueen  of  tbe  129 

often  beautifully  used  by  other  flowers  in 
a minor  degree,  like  the  beating  out  of 
bosses  in  hollow  silver,  as  in  the  kalmia, 
beaten  out  apparently  in  each  petal  by  the 
stamens  instead  of  a hammer  ; or  the  borage, 
pouting  towards  ; but  the  snapdragons  and 
calceolarias  carry  it  to  its  extreme. 

87.  Then  the  spirit  of  these  Draconidae 
seems  to  pass  more  or  less  into  other  flowers, 
whose  forms  are  properly  pure  vases  ; but 
it  affects  some  of  them  slightly,  others  not 
at  all.  It  never  strongly  affects  the- heaths  ; 
never  once  the  roses  ; but  it  .enters  like  an 
evil  spirit  into  the  buttercup,  and  turns  it  in- 
to a larkspur,  with  a black,  spotted,  grotesque 
centre,  and  a strange,  broken  blue,  gorgeous 
and  intense,  yet  impure,  glittering  on  the 
surface  as  if  it  were  strewn  with  broken 
glass,  and  stained  or  darkening  irregularly 
into  red.  And  then  at  last  the  serpent  charm 
changes  the  ranunculus  into  monkshood,  and 
makes  it  poisonous.  It  enters  into  the  for- 
get-me-not, and  the  star  of  heavenly  tur- 
quoise is  corrupted  into  the  viper’s  bugloss, 
darkened  with  the  same  strange  red  as  the 
larkspur,  and  fretted  into  a fringe  of  thorn  ; 
it  enters,  together  with  a strange  insect- 
9 


130 


ZEbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  att. 


spirit,  into  the  asphodels,  and  (though  with 
a greater  interval  between  the  groups)  they 
change  into  spotted  orchideae  ; it  touches  the 
poppy,  it  becomes  a fumaria  ; the  iris,  and 
it  pouts  into  a gladiolus ; the  lily,  and  it 
chequers  itself  into  a snake's-head,  and 
secretes  in  the  deep  of  its  bell,  drops,  not  of 
venom  indeed,  but  honey-dew,  as  if  it  were 
a healing  serpent.  For  there  is  an  ^scula- 
pian  as  well  as  an  evil  serpentry  among  the 
Draconidae,  and  the  fairest  o‘f  them,  the  erba 
della  Madonna'’  of  Venice  (Linaria  Cymba- 
laria),  descends  from  the  ruins  it  delights 
into  the  herbage  at  their  feet,  and  touches  it  ; 
and  behold,  instantly,  a vast  group  of  herbs 
for  healing, — all  draconid  in  form, — spotted 
and  crested,  and  from  their  lip-like  corollas 
named  ^Mabiatae;"  full  of  various  balm, 
and  warm  strength  for  healing,  yet  all  of 
them  without  splendid  honor  or  perfect 
beauty,  ^ ' ground  ives,”  richest  when  crushed 
under  the  foot ; the  best  sweetness  and 
gentk  brightness  of  the  robes  of  the  field, — 
thyme,  and  marjoram,  and  Euphrasy. 

88.  And  observe,  again  and  again,  with 
respect  to  all  these  divisions  and  powers  of 
plants  ; it  does  not  matter  in  the  least  by 


tTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe 


131 

what  concurrences  of  circumstance  or  neces^ 
sity  they  may  gradually  have  been  devel- 
oped ; the  concurrence  of  circumstance  is 
itself  the  supreme  and  inexplicable  fact.  We 
always  come  at  last  to  a formative  cause, 
which  directs  the  circumstance,  and  mode 
of  meeting  it.  If  you  ask  an  ordinary  bot- 
anist the  reason  of  the  form  of  a leaf,  he 
will  tell  you  it  is  a ''developed  tubercle,'" 
and  that  its  ultimate  form  " is  owing  to  the 
directions  of  its  vascular  threads. " But  what 
directs  its  vascular  threads  "They  are 
seeking  for  something  they  want,"  he  will 
probably  answer.  What  made  them  want 
that  ? What  made  them  seek  lor  it  thus  ? 
Seek  for  it,  in  five  fibres  or  in  three  ? Seek 
for  it,  in  serration,  or  in  sweeping  curves  ? 
Seek  for  it,  in  servile  tendrils,  or  impetuous 
spray  ? Seek  for  it,  in  woollen  wrinkles 
rough  with  stings,  or  in  glossy  surfaces, 
green  with  pure  strength,  and  winterless 
delight  ? 

89.  There  is  no  answer.  But  the  sum  of 
all  is,  that  over  the  entire  surface  of  the  earth, 
and  its  waters,  as  influenced  by  the  power 
of  the  air  under  solar  light,  there  is  devel- 
oped a series  of  changing  forms,  in  clotids, 


132 


ttbe  (Siueen  of  tbe  air< 


plants,  and  animals,  all  of  which  have  refer- 
ence in  their  action,  or  nature,  to  the  human 
intelligence  that  perceives  them  ; and  on 
which,  in  their  aspects  of  horror  and  beauty, 
and  their  qualities  of  good  and  evil,  there  is 
engraved  a series  of  myths,  or  words  of  the 
forming  power,  which,  according  to  the  tru^ 
passion  and  energy  of  the  human  race,  they 
have  been  enabled  to  read  into  religion. 
And  this  forming  power  has  been  by  all  na- 
tions partly  confused  with  the  breath  or  air 
through  which  it  acts,  and  partly  understood 
as  a creative  wisdom,  proceeding  from  the  Su- 
preme Deity  ; but  entering  into  and  inspiring 
all  intelligences  that  work  in  harmony  with 
Him.  And  whatever  intellectual  results 
may  be  in  modern  days  obtained  by  regard- 
ing this  effluence  only  as  a motion  of  vibra- 
tion, every  formative  human  art  hitherto, 
and  the  best  states  of  human  happiness  and 
order,  have  depended  on  the  apprehension 
of  its  mystery  (which  is  certain),  and  of  its 
personality,  which  is  probable. 

90.  Of  its  influence  on  the  formative  arts, 
I have  a few  words  to  say  separately  : my 
present  business  is  only  to  interpret,  as  we 
are  now  sufficiently  enabled  to  do,  the  exter- 


tibe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bfr* 


133 


nal  symbols  of  the  myth  under  which  it  was 
represented  by  the  Greeks  as  a goddess  of 
counsel,  taken  first  into  the  breast  of  their 
supreme  Deity,  then  created  out  of  his 
thoughts,  and  abiding  closely  beside  him  ; 
always  sharing  and  consummating  his 
power. 

91.  And  in  doing  this  we  have  first  to  note 
the  meaning  of  the  principal  epithet  applied 
to  Athena,  Glaukopis,''  ‘^with  eyes  full  of 
light,  the  first  syllable  being  connected,  by 
its  root,  with  words  signifying  sight,'  not 
with  words  signifying  color.  As  far  as  I 
can  trace  the  color  perception  of  the  Greeks, 
I find  it  all  founded  primarily  on  the  degree 
of  connection  between  color  and  light ; the 
most  important  fact  to  them  in  the  color  of 
red  being  its  connection  with  fire  and  sun- 
shine ; so  that  '' purple'' is,  in  its  original 
sense,  ‘‘fire-color,"  and  the  scarlet  or  orange, 
of  dawn,  more  than  any  other  fire-color.  I 
was  long  puzzled  by  Homer's  calling  the  sea 
purple  ; and  misled  into  thinking  he  meant 
the  color  of  cloud  shadows  on  green  sea  ; 
whereas  he  really  means  the  gleaming  blaze 
of  the  waves  under  wide  light.  Aristotle's 
idea  (partly  true)  is  that  light,  subdued  by 


134 


Zbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe  2lln 


blackness,  becomes  red ; and  blackness, 
heated  or  lighted,  also  becomes  red.  Thus, 
a color  may  be  called  purple  becaus  it  is 
light  subdued  (and  so  death  is  called 
“purple''  or  “shadowy"  death)  ; or  else  it 
may  be  ca  lled  purple  as  b^ing  shade  kindled 
with  fire,  and  thus  said  of  the  lighted  sea  ; 
or  even  of  the  sun  itself,  when  it  is  thought 
of  as  a red  luminary  opposed  to  the  white- 
ness of  the  moon  : “purpureos  inter  soles, 
et  Candida  lunae  sidera ; " or  of  golden  hair  : 
“pro  purpureo  pcsnam  solvens  scelerata 
capillo  ; " while  both  ideas  are  modified  by 
the  influence  of  an  earlier  form  of  the  word, 
which  has  nothing  to  do  with  fire  at  all,  but 
only  with  mixing  or  staining  ; and  then,  to 
make  the  whole  group  of  thoughts  inextri- 
cably complex,  yet  rich  and  subtle  in  pro- 
portion to  their  intricacy,  the  various  rose 
and  crimson  colors  of  the  murex-dye, — the 
crimson  and  purple- of  the  poppy,  and  fruit 
of  the  palm, — and  the  association  of  all  these 
with  the  hue  of  blood, — piartly  direct,  partly 
through  a confusion  between  the  word  signi- 
fying “slaughter  " and  “pialm-fruit  color,” 
mingle  themselves  in,  and  renew  the  whole 
nature  of  the  old  word ; so  that,  in  later 


Z\)c  (aueen  of  tbe 


I3S 

literature,  it  means  a different  color,  or  emo- 
tion of  color,  in  almost  every  place  where  it 
occurs  ; and  casts  forever  around  the  reflec- 
tion of  all  that  has  been  dipped  in  its 
dyes. 

92.  So  that  the  world  is  really  a liquid 
prism,  and  stream  of  opal.  And  then,  last 
of  all,  to  keep  the  whole  history  of  it  in  the 
fantastic  course  of  a dream,  warped  here 
and  there  into  wild  grotesque,  we  mod  rns, 
who  have  preferred  to  rule  over  coal-mines 
instead  of  the  sea  (and  so  have  turned  the 
everlasting  lamp  of  Athena  into  a Davy’s 
safety-lamp  in  the  hand  of  Britannia,  and 
Athenian  heavenly  lightning  into  British 
subterranean  ‘"damp”),  have  actually  got 
our  purple  out  of  coal  instead  of  the  sea ! 
And  thus,  grotesquely,  we  have  had  enforced 
oh  us  the  doubt  th«it  held  the  old  word  be- 
tween blackness  and  fire,  and  have  com- 
pleted the  shadow,  and  the  fear  of  it,  by  giv- 
ing it  a name  from  battle,  Magenta.” 

93.  There  is  precisely  a similar  confusion 
between  light  and  color  in  the  word  used  for 
the  blue  of  the  eyes  of  Athena — a noble 
confusion,  however,  brought  about  by  the 
intensity  of  the  Greek  sense  that  the  heaven 


136  ttbe  (aueen  oT  tbe  Uiu 

is  light,  more  than  it  is  blue.  I was  not 
thinking  of  this  when  I wrote  in  speaking  of 
pictorial  chiaroscuro,  ‘'The  sky  is  not  blue 
color  merely  : it  is  blue  fire  and  cannot  be 
painted''  (Mod.  P.  iv.  p.  36);  but  it  was 
this  that  the  Greeks  chiefly  felt  of  it,  and  so 
Glaukopis  " chiefly  means  gray-eyed  : gray 
standing  for  a pale  or  luminous  blue  ; but  it 
only  means  “owl-eyed"  in  thought  of  the 
roundness  and  expansion,  not  from  the 
color;  this  breath  and  brightness  being, 
again,  in  their  moral  sense  typical  of  the 
breadth,  intensity,  and  singleness  of  the  sight 
in  prudence  (“if  thine  eye  be  single,  thy 
whole  body  shall  be  full  of  light  ").  Then 
the  actual  power  of^he  bird  to  see  in  twilight 
enters  into  the  type,  and  perhaps  its  general 
fineness  of  sense.  “ Before  the  human  form 
was  adopted,  her  (Athena's)  proper  symbol 
was  the  owl,  a bird  which  seems  to  surpass 
all  other  creatures  in  acuteness  of  organic 
perception,  its  eye  being  calculated  to  ob- 
serve objects  which  to  all  others  are 
enveloped  in  darkness,  its  ear  to  hear 
sounds  distinctly,  and  its  nostrils  to  dis- 
criminate effluvia  with  such  nicety  that  it  has 
been  deemed  prophetic,  from  discovering 


a:be  (Rueen  of  tbe  Uiu 


137 

the  putridity  of  death  even  in  the  first  stages 
of  disease/'  * 

I cannot  find  anywhere  an  account  of  the 
first  known  occurrence  of  the  type  ; but,  in 
the  early  ones  on  Attic  coins,  the  wide  round 
eyes  are  clearly  the  principal  things  to  be 
made  manifest 

94.  There  is  yet,  however,  another  color 
of  great  importance  in  the  conception  of 
Athena — the  dark  blue  of  her  aegis.  Just  as 
the  blue  or  gray  of  her  eyes  was  conceived 
as  more  light  than  color,  so  her  aegis  was 
dark  blue,  because  the  Greeks  thought  of 
this  tint  more  as  shade  than  color,  and,  while 
they  used  various  materials  in  ornamenta- 
tion, lapislazuli,  carbonate  of  copper,  or, 
perhaps,  smalt,  with  real  enjoyment  of  the 
blue  tint,  it  was  yet  in  their  minds  as 
distinctly  representative  of  darkness  as 
scarlet  was  of  light,  and,  therefore,  anything 
dark,f  but  especially  the  color  of  heavy 

* Payne  Knight  in  his  “ Inquiry  into  the  Symbolical 
Language  of  Ancient  Art,’^  not  trustworthy,  being  little 
more  than  a mass  of  conjectural  memoranda,  but  the 
heap  is  suggestive,  if  well  sifted. 

t In  the  breastplate  and  shield  of  Atrides  the  serpents 
and  bosses  are  all  of  this  dark  color,  yet  the  serpents 
are  said  to  be  like  rainbows;  but  through  all  this 


138  TLbc  (aueen  of  tbe 

thunder-cloud,  was  described  by  the  same 
term.  The  physical  power  of  this  darkness 

splendor  and  opposition  of  hue,  I feel  distinctly  that 
the  literal  “ splendor,”  with  its  relative  shade,  are 
prevalent  in  the  conception  ; and  that  there  is  always  a 
tendency  to  look  through  the  hue  to  its  cause.  And 
in  this  feeling  about  color  the  Greeks  are  separated 
from  the  eastern  nations,  and  from  the  best  designers 
of  Christian  times.  I cannot  find  that  they  take 
pleasure  in  color  for  its  own  sake ; it  may  be  in  some- 
thing more  than  color,  or  better ; but  it  is  not  in  the 
hue  itself.  When  Homer  describes  cloud  breaking 
from  a mountain  summit,  the  crags  become  visible  in 
light,  not  in  color ; he  feels  only  their  flashing  out  in 
bright  edges  and  trenchant  shadows;  above,  the 
“infinite,’’  “ unspeakable  ” aether  is  torn  open — ^but  not 
the  Mue  of  it.  He  has  scarcely  any  abstract  pleasure 
in  blue,  or  green,  or  gold  ; but  only  in  their  shade  or 
flame. 

I have  yet  to  trace  the  causes  of  this  (which  will  be 
a lang  task,  belonging  to  art  questions,  not  to  mythologi- 
cal ones) ; but  it  is,  I believe,  much  connected  with  the 
brooding  of  the  shadow  of  death  over  the  Greeks  with- 
out any  clear  hope  of  immortality.  The  restriction  of 
the  color  on  their  vases  to  dim  red  (or  yellow)  with 
black  and  white,  is  greatly  connected  with  their 
sepulchral  use,  and  with  all  the  melancholy  of  Greek 
tragic  thought ; and  in  this  gloom  the  failure  of  color- 
perception  is  partly  noble,  partly  base:  noble,  in  its 
earnestness,  which  raises  the  design  of  Greek  vasae  as 
far  above  the  designing  of  mere  colorist  nations  like 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe 


139 


of  the  3egis,  fringed  with  lightning,  is  given 
quite  simply  when  Jupiter  himself  uses  it  to 
overshadow  Ida  and  the  Plain  of  Troy,  and 
withdraws  it  at  the  prayer  of  Ajax  for  light  ; 
and  again  when  he  grants  it  to  be  worn  for 
a time  by  Apollo,  who  is  hidden  by  its  cloud 
when  he  strikes  down  Patroclus  ; but  its 
spiritual  power  is  chiefly  expressed  by  a 
word  signifying  deeper  shadow, — the  gloom 
of  Erebus,  or  of  our  evening,  which,  v^hen 
spoken  of  the  aegis,  signifles,  not  merely  the 
indignation  of  Athena,  but  the  entire  hiding 
or  withdrawal  of  her  help,  and  beyond  even 
this,  her  deadliest  of  all  hostility, — the  dark- 

the  Chinese,  as  man’s  thoughts  are  above  children’s; 
and  yejt  it  is  partly  base  and  earthly,  and  inherently 
defective  in  one  human  faculty ; and  I believe  it  was 
one  cause  of  the  perishing  of  their  afrt  so  swiftly, 
for  indeed  there  is  no  decline  so  sudden,  or  down  to 
such  utter  loss  and  ludicrous  depravity,  as  the  fall  of 
Greek  design  on  its  vases  from  the  fifth  to  the  third 
century  B.  c.  On  the  other  hand,  the  pure  colored- 
gift,  when  employed  for  pleasure  only,  degrades  in  an- 
other direction ; so  that  among  the  Indians,  Chinese, 
and  Japanese,  all  intellect'ual  progress  in  art  has  been 
for  ages  rendered  impossible  by  the  prevalence  of  that 
faculty;  and  yet  it  is,  as  I have  said  again  and  again, 
the  spiritual  power  of  art  ; and  its  true  bri^tness  is  the 
essential  characteristic  of  all  healthy  schools. 


140 


XLbc  (aueen  ot  tbe 


ness  by  which  she  herself  deceives  and  be- 
guiles to  final  ruin  those  to  whom  she  is 
wholly  adverse  ; this  contradiction  of  her 
own  glory  being  the  uttermost  judgment 
upon  human  falsehood.  Thus  it  is  she  who 
provokes  Pandarus  to  the  treachery  which 
purposed  to  fulfil  the  rape  of  Helen  by  the 
murder  of  her  husband  in  time  of  truce  ; 
and  /hen  the  Greek  king,  holding  his 
wounded  brother's  hand,  prophesies  against 
Troy  the  darkness  of  the  aegis  which  shall 
be  over  all,  and  for  ever.* 

95.  This,  then,  finally,  was  the  perfect 
color-conception  of  Athena  : the  flesh,  snow- 
white  (the  hands,  feet,  and  face  of  marble, 
even  when  the  statue  was  hewn  roughly  in 
wood);  the  eyes  of  keen  pale  blue,  often  in 
statues  represented  by  jewels  ; the  long  robe 
to  the  feet,  crocus-colored  ; and  the  aegis 
thrown  over  it  of  thunderous  purple ; the 
helmet  golden  (IL  v.  744),  and  I suppose 
its  crest  also,  as  that  of  Achilles. 

If  you  think  carefully  of  the  meaning  and 
character  which  is  now  enough  illustrated 
for  you  in  each  of  these  colors,  and  remem- 


* ipeyLvriv  Alylda  7rd<rt. — II,  iv.  166. 


^bc  (aueen  of  tbc  Bit*  141 

ber  that  the  crocus-color  and  the  purple 
were  both  of  them  developments,  in  oppo- 
site directions,  of  the  great  central  idea  of 
fire-color,  or  scarlet,  you  will  see  that  this 
form  of  the  creative  spirit  of  the  earth  is 
conceived  as  robed  in  the  blue,  and  purple, 
and  scarlet,  the  white,  and  the  gold,  which 
have  been  recognized  for  the  sacred  chords 
of  colors,  from  the  day  when  the  cloud  de- 
scended on  a Rock  more  mighty  than  Ida. 

96.  I have  spoken  throughout,  hitherto, 
of  the  conception  of  Athena,  as  it  is  trace- 
able in  the  Greek  mind ; not  as  it  was  ren- 
dered by  Greek  art.  It  is  matter  of  extreme 
difficulty,  requiring  a sympathy  at  once 
affectionate  and  cautious,  and  a knowledge 
reaching  the  earliest  springs  of  the  religion 
of  many  lands,  to  discern  through  the  im- 
perfection, and,  alas ! more  dimly  yet, 
through  the  triumphs  of  formative  art,  what 
kind  of  thoughts  they  were  that  appointed 
for  it  the  tasks  of  its  childhood,  and  watched 
by  the  awakening  of  its  strength. 

The  religious  passion  is  nearly  always 
vividest  when  the  art  is  weakest ; and  the 
technical  skill  only  reaches  its  deliberate 
splendor  when  the  ecstasy  which  gave  it 


142 


Zbc  (auecn  of  tbe  Bit* 


birth  has  passed  away  forever.  It  is  as 
vain  an  attempt  to  reason  out  the  visionary 
power  or  guiding  influence  of  Athena  in  the 
Greek  heart,  from  anything  we  now  read, 
or  possess,  of  the  work  of  Phidias,  as  it 
would  be  for  the  disciples  of  some  new  relig- 
ion to  infer  the  spirit  of  Christianity  from 
Titian's  ''Assumption."  The  effective  vi- 
tality of  the  religious  conception  can  be 
traced  only  through  the  efforts  of  trembling 
hands,  and  strange  pleasures  of  untaught 
eyes ; and  the  beauty  of  the  dream  can  no 
more  be  found  in  the  first  symbols  by  which 
it  is  expressed,  than  a child's  idea  of  fairy- 
land can  be  gathered  from  its  pencil  scrawl, 
or  a girl's  love  f®r  her  broken  doll  explained 
by  the  defaced  features.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Athena  of  Phidias  was,  in  very 
fact,  not  so  much  the  deity,  as  the  darling 
of  the  Athenian  people.  Her  magnificence 
represented  their  pride  and  fondness,  more 
than  their  piety ; and  the  great  artist,  in 
lavishing  upon  her  dignities  which  might  be 
ended  abruptly  by  the  pillage  they  provoked, 
resigned,  apparently  without  regret,  the  awe 
of  her  ancient  memory  ; and  (with  only  the 
careless  remonstrance  of  a workman  too 


tibe  (Slucen  of  tbe  2lin  143 

strong  to  be  proud)  even  the  perfectness  of 
his  own  art.  Rejoicing  in  the  protection 
of  their  goddess,  and  in  their  own  hour  of 
glory,  the  people  of  Athena  robed  her,  at 
their  will,  with  the  preciousness  of  ivory  and 
gems  ; forgot  or  denied  the  darkness  of  the 
breastplate  of  judgment,  and  vainly  bade 
its  unappeasable  serpents  relax  their  coils  in 
gold. 

97.  It  will  take  me  many  a day  yet — if 
days,  many  or  few,  are  given  me — to  disen- 
tangle in  anywise  the  proud  and  practiced 
disguises  of  religious  creeds  from  the  in- 
stinctive arts  which,  grotesquely  and  indeco- 
rously, yet  with  sincerity,  strove  to  embody 
them,  or  to  relate.  But  I think  the  reader, 
by  help  even  of  the  imperfect  indications 
already  given  to  him,  will  be  able  to  follow, 
with  a continually  increasing  security,  the 
vestiges  of  the  Myth  of  Athena  ; and  to  re- 
animate its  almost  evanescent  shade,  by 
connecting  it  with  the  now  recognized  facts 
of  existent  nature  which  it,  more  or  less 
dimly,  reflected  and  foretold.  I gather  these 
facts  together  in  brief  sum. 

98.  The  deep  of  air  that  surrounds  the 
earth  enters  into  union  with  the  earth  at  its 


144 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Btr* 


surface,  and  with  its  waters,  so  as  to  he  the 
apparent  cause  of  their  ascending  into  life. 
First,  it  warms  them,  and  shades,  at  once, 
staying  the  heat  of  the  sun's  rays  in  its  own 
body,  but  warding  their  force  with  its  clouds. 
It  warms  and  cools  at  once,  with  traffic  of 
balm  and  frost ; so  that  the  white  wreaths 
are  withdrawn  from  the  field  of  the  Swiss 
peasant  by  the  glow  of  Libyan  rock.  It 
gives  its  own  strength  to  the  sea ; forms 
and  fills  every  cell  of  its  foam  ; sustains  the 
precipices,  and  designs  the  valleys  of  its 
waves ; gives  the  gleam  to  their  moving 
under  the  night,  and  the  white  fire  to  their 
plains  under  sunrise  ; lifts  their  voices  along 
the  rocks,  bears  above  them  the  spray  of 
birds,  pencils  through  them  the  dimpling  of 
unfooted  sands.  It  gathers  out  of  them  a 
portion  in  the  hollow  of  its  hand  : dyes, 
with  that,  the  hills  into  dark  blue,  and  their 
glaciers  with  dying  rose  ; inlays  with  that, 
for  sapphire,  the  dome  in  which  it  has  to 
set  the  cloud  ; shapes  out  of  that  the  heav- 
enly flocks : divides  them,  numbers,  cher- 
ishes, bears  them  on  its  bosom,  calls  them 
to  their  journeys,  waits  by  their  re^  ; feeds 
from  them  the  brooks  that  cease  not,  and 


XTbe  (aueen  of  tbe 


145 


strews  with  them  the  dews  that  cease.  It 
spins  and  weaves  their  fleece  into  wild  tapes- 
try, rends  it,  and  renews  ; and  flits  and 
flames,  and  whispers,  among  the  golden 
threads,  thrilling  them  with  a plectrum  of 
strange  fire  that  traverses  them  to  and  fro, 
and  is  enclosed  in  them  like  life. 

It  enters  into  the  surface  of  the  earth,  sub- 
dues it,  and  falls  together  with  it  into  fruit- 
ful dust,  from  which  can  be  moulded  flesh  ; 
it  joins  itself,  in  dew,  to  the  substance  of 
adamant,  and  becomes  the  green  leaf  out  of 
the  dry  ground  ; it  enters  into  the  separated 
shapes  of  the  earth  it  has  tempered,  com- 
mands the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  current  of 
their  life,  fills  their  limbs  with  its  own  light- 
ness, measures  their  existence  by  its  in- 
dwelling pulse,  moulds  upon  their  lips  the 
words  by  which  one  soul  can  be  known  to 
another ; is  to  them  the  hearing  of  the  ear, 
and  the  beating  of  the  heart ; and,  passing 
away,  leaves  them  to  the  peace  that  hears 
and  moves  no  more. 

99.  This  was  the  Athena  of  the  greatest 
people  of  the  days  of  old.  And  opposite  to 
the  temple  of  this  Spirit  of  the  breath,  and 
life-blood,  of  man  and  of  beast,  stood,  on 

10 


146  tLbc  <aueen  of  tbc  %iu 

the  Mount  of  Justice,  and  near  the  chasm 
which  was  haunted  by  the  goddess-Avengers, 
an  altar  to  a God  unknown, — proclaimed  at 
last  to  them,  as  one  who,  indeed,  gave  to  all 
men,  life,  and  breath,  and  all  things  ; and 
rain  from  heaven,  filling  their  hearts  with 
food  and  gladness  ; a God  who  had  made  of 
one  blood  all  nations  of  men  who  dwell  on 
the  face  of  all  the  earth,  and  had  determined 
the  times  of  their  fate,  and  the  bounds  of 
their  habitation. 

100.  We  ourselves,  fretted  here  in  our 
narrow  days,  know  less,  perhaps,  in  very 
d^d,  than  they,  what  manner  of  spirit  we 
arb  of,  or  what  manner  of  spirit  we  igno- 
rantly worship.  Have  we,  indeed,  desired  the 
Desire  of  all  nations  ? and  will  the  Master 
whom  we  meant  to  seek,  and  the  Messenger 
in  whom  we  thought  we  delighted,  confirm, 
when  He  comes  to  His  temple, — or  not 
find  in  its  midst, — the  tables  heavy  with  gold 
for  bread,  and  the  seats  that  are  bought 
with  the  price  of  the  dove.?  Or  is  our  own 
land  also  to  be  left  by  its  angered  Spirit, 
— left  among  those,  where  sunshine  vainly 
sweet,  and  passionate  folly  of  storm, 
waste  themselves  in  the  silent  places  of 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  "Biu  147 

"knowledge  that  has  passed  away,  and  of 
tongues  that  have  ceased  ? 

This  only  we  may  discern  assuredly  ; this, 
every  true  light  of  science,  every  merci- 
fully-granted power,  every  wisely-restricted 
thought,  teach  us  more  clearly  day  by  day, 
that  in  the  heavens  above,  and  the  earth 
beneath,  there  is  one  continual  and  omnipo- 
tent presence  of  help,  and  of  peace,  for  all 
men  who  know  that  they  live,  and  remem- 
ber that  they  die. 


148 


Cbe  (Slucen  of  tbe  Uiu 


III. 

ATHENA  ERGANE.* 

{Athena  in  the  Heart,') 

VARIOUS  NOTES  RELATING  TO  THE  CONCEPTION  OF 

ATHENA  AS  THE  DIRECTRESS  OF  THE  IMAGINA- 
TION AND  WILL. 

loi.  I HAVE  now  only  a few  words  to  say, 
bearing  on  what  seems  to  me  present  need, 
respecting  the  third  function  of  Athena,  con- 
ceived as  the  directress  of  human  passion, 
resolution,  and  labor. 

Few  words,  for  I am  not  yet  prepared  to 
give  accurate  distinction  between  the  intel- 
lectual rule  of  Athena  and  that  of  the  Muses  ; 
but,  broadly,  the  Muses,  with  their  king, 
preside  over  meditative,  historical,  and 
poetic  arts,  whose  end  is  the  discovery  of  light 
or  truth,  and  the  creation  of  beauty  ; but 

♦“Athena  the  worker,  or  having  rule  overwork." 
The  name  wa*  first  given  to  her  by  the  Athenians. 


a:be  (Sluecn  of  tbe  Bit*  149 

Athena  rules  over  moral  passion,  and  practi- 
cally useful  art.  She  does  not  make  men 
learned,  but  prudent  and  subtle ; she  does 
not  teach  them  to  make  their  work  beautiful, 
but  to  make  it  right. 

In  different  places  of  my  writings,  and 
through  many  years  of  endeavor  to  define 
the  laws  of  art,  I have  insisted  on  this  right- 
ness in  work,  and  on  its  connection  with 
virtue  of  character,  in  so  many  partial  ways, 
that  the  impression  left  on  the  reader  s mind — 
if,  indeed,  it  was  ever  impressed  at  all — has 
been  confused  and  uncprtain.  In  beginning 
the  series  of  my  corrected  works,  I wish  this 
principle  (in  my  own  mind  the  foundation 
of  every  other)  to  be  made  plain,  if  nothing 
else  is ; and  will  try,  therefore,  to  make  it 
so,  as  far  as,  by  any  effort,  I can  put  it  into 
unmistakable  words.  And,  first,  here  is  a 
very  simple  statement  of  it,  given  lately  in 
a lecture  on  the  Architecture  of  the  Valley 
of  the  Somme,  which  will  be  better  read  in 
this  place  than  in  its  incidental  connection 
with  my  account  of  the  porches  of  Abbeville. 

102.  I had  used,  in  a preceding  part  of  the 
lecture,  the  expression,  ''by  what  faults’' 
this  Gothic  architecture  fell.  We  continually 


150  tTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe 

speak  thus  of  works  of  art.  We  talk  oftheJf 
faults  and  merits,  as  of  virtues  and  vices. 
What  do  we  mean  by  talking  of  the  faults 
of  a picture,  or  the  merits  of  a piece  of  stone  ? 

The  faults  of  a work  of  art  are  the  faults 
of  its  workman,  and  its  virtues  his  virtues. 

Great  art  is  the  expression  of  the  mind  of 
a great  man,  and  mean  art,  that  of  the  want 
of  mind  of  a weak  man.  A foolish  person 
builds  foolishly,  and  a wise  one,  sensibly ; 
a virtuous  one,  beautifully  ; and  a vicious 
one,  basely.  If  stone  work  is  well  put  to- 
gether, it  means  that  a thoughtful  man 
planned  it,  and  a careful  man  cut  it,  and  an 
honest  man  cemented  it.  If  it  has  too  much 
ornament,  it  means  that  its  carver  was  too 
greedy  of  pleasure  ; if  too  little,  that  he  was 
rude,  or  insensitive,  or  stupid,  and  the  like. 
So  that  when  once  you  have  learned  how  to 
spell  these  most  precious  of  all  legends, — 
pictures  and  buildings, — you  may  read  the 
characters  of  men,  and  of  nations,  in  their 
art,  as  in  a mirror  ; nay,  as  in  a microscope, 
and  magnified  a hundredfold  ; for  the  char- 
acter becomes  passionate  in  the  art,  and  in- 
tensifies itself  in  all  its  noblest  or  meanest 
delights.  Nay,  not  only  as  in  a microscope^ 


?rbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Mu  15? 

but  as  under  a scalpel,  and  in  dissection  ; for 
a man  may  hide  himself  from  you,  or  mis- 
represent himself  to  you,  every  other  way  ; 
but  he  cannot  in  his  work  : there,  be  sure, 
you  have  him  to  the  inmost.  All  that  he 
likes,  all  that  he  sees,— all  that  he  can  do, 

■ — his  imagination,  his  affections,  his  per- 
severance, his  impatience,  his  clumsiness, 
cleverness,  everything  is  there.  If  the  work 
is  a cobweb,  you  know  it  was  made  by  a 
spider ; if  a honey-comb,  by  a bee ; a 
wormcast  is  thrown  up  by  a worm,  and  a 
nest  wreathed  by  a bird  ; and  a house  built 
by  a man,  v/orthily,  if  he  is  worthy,  and  ig- 
iiobly  if  he  is  ignoble. 

And  always,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest, 
as  the  made  thing  is  good  or  bad,  so  is  the 
maker  of  it. 

103.  You  all  use  this  faculty  of  judgment 
more  or  less,  whether  you  theoretically  ad- 
mit the  principle  or  not.  Take  that  floral 
gable ; * you  don’t  suppose  the  man  who 
built  Stonehenge  could  have  built  that,  or 

* The  elaborate  pendiment  above  the  central  porch 
at  the  west  end  of  Rouen  Cathedral,  pierced  into  a 
transparent  web  of  tracery,  and  enriched  with  a border 
of  “ twisted  eglantine.*’ 


tTbe  (Siueen  of  tbe  Uiu 


^52 

that  the  man  who  built  that,  would  have 
built  Stonehenge  ? Do  you  think  an  old 
Roman  would  have  liked  such  a piece  of  fili- 
gree work?  or  that  Michael  Angelo  would 
have  spent  his  time  in  twisting  these  stems 
of  roses  in  and  out  ? Or,  of  modern  handi- 
craftsmen, do  you  think  a burglar,  or  a brute, 
or  a pickpocket  could  have  carved  it  ? Could 
Bill  Sykes  have  done  it  ? or  the  Dodger,  dex- 
terous with  finger  and  tool  ? You  will  find 
in  the  end,  that  no  man  could  have  done  it  hut 
exactly  the  man  who  did  it ; and  by  looking 
close  at  it,  you  may,  if  you  know  your  letters, 
read  precisely  the  manner  of  man  he  was. 

104.  Now  I must  insist  on  this  matter,  for 
a grave  reason.  Of  all  facts  concerning  art, 
this  is  the  one  most  necessary  to  be  known, 
that,  while  manufacture  is  the  work  of  hands 
only,  art  is  the  work  of  the  whole  spirit  of 
man  ; and  as  that  spirit  is,  so  is  the  deed  of 
it ; and  by  whatever  power  of  vice  or  virtue 
any  art  is  produced,  the  same  vice  or  virtue 
it  reproduces  and  teaches.  That  which  is 
born  of  evil  begets  evil ; and  that  which  is 
born  of  valor  and  honor,  teaches  valor  and 
honor.  All  art  is  either  infection  or  educa- 
tion. It  must  be  one  or  other  of  these. 


XLbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe  air*  153 

105.  This,  I repeat,  of  all  truths  respecting 
art,  is  the  one  of  which  understanding  is  the 
'most  precious,  and  denial  the  most  deadly. 
And  I assert  it  the  more,  because  it  has  of 
late  been  repeatedly,  expressly,  and  with 
contumely,  denied,  and  that  by  high  author- 
ity ; and  I hold  it  one  of  the  most  sorrowful 
facts  connected  with  the  decline  of  the  arts 
among  us,  that  English  gentlemen,  of  high 
standing  as  scholars  and  artists,  should  have 
been  blinded  into  the  acceptance,  and  be- 
trayed into  the  assertion  of  a fallacy  which 
only  authority  such  as  theirs  could  have  ren- 
dered for  an  instant  credible.  For  the  con- 
trary of  it  is  written  in  the  history  of  all 
great  nations  ; it  is  the  one  sentence  always 
inscribed  on  the  steps  of  their  thrones  ; the 
one  concordant  voice  in  which  they  speak  to 
us  out  of  their  dust. 

All  such  nations  first  manifest  themselves 
as  a pure  and  beautiful  animal  race,  with 
intense  energy  and  imagination.  They  live 
lives  of  hardship  by  choice,  and  by  grand 
instinct  of  manly  discipline ; they  become 
fierce  and  irresistible  soldiers  ; the  nation  is 
always  its  own  army,  and  their  king,  or  chief 
head  of  government,  is  always  their  first 


IS4 


ttbe  (aueen  ot  tbe 


soldier.  Pharaoh,  or  David,  or  Leonidas,  or 
Valerius,  or  Barbarossa,  or  Coeur  de  Lion,  or 
St.  Louis,  or  Dandolo,  or  Frederick  the  Great,* 
— Egyptian,  Jew,  Greek,  Roman,  German, 
English,  French,  Venetian, — that  is  invio- 
lable law  for  them  all ; their  king  must  be 
their  first  soldier,  or  they  cannot  be  in  pro- 
gressive power.  Then,  after  their  great 
military  period,  comes  the  domestic  period  ; 
in  which,  without  betraying  the  discipline  of 

war,  they  add  to  their  great  soldiership  the 
delights  and  possessions  of  a delicate  and 
tender  home-life  ; and  then,  for  all  nations, 
is  the  time  of  their  perfect  art,  which  is  the 
fruit,  the  evidence,  the  reward  of  their 
national  ideal  of  character,  developed  by  the 
finished  care  of  the  occupations  of  peace. 
That  is  the  history  of  all  true  art  that  ever 

was,  or  can  be  ; palpably  the  history  of  it, — » 
unmistakably, — written  on  the  forehead  of 
it  in  letters  of  light,— -in  tongues  of  fire,  by 
which  the  seal  of  virtue  fe  branded  as  deep 
as  ever  iron  burnt  into  a convict's  flesh  the 
seal  of  crime.  But  always,  hitherto,  after 
the  great  period,  has  followed  the  day  of 
luxury,  and  pursuit  of  the  arts  for  pleasure 
only.  And  all  has  so  ended. 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbc  Bit*  155 

106.  Thus  far  of  Abbeville  building.  Now 
I have  here  asserted  two  things, — first, 
the  foundation  of  art  in  moral  character  ; 
next,  the  foundation  of  moral  character  in 
war.  I must  make  both  these  assertions 
clearer,  and  prove  them. 

First,  of  the  foundation  of  art  in  moral 
character.  Of  course  art-gift  and  amiability 
of  disposition  are  two  different  things  ; fora 
good  man  is  not  necessarily  a painter,  nor 
does  an  eye  for  color  necessarily  imply  an 
honest  mind.  But  great  art  implies  the 
union  of  both  powers  ; it  is  the  expression, 
by  an  art-gift,  of  a pure  soul.  If  the  gift  is 
not  there,  we  can  have  no  art  at  all  ; and  if 
the  soul — and  a right  soul  too — is  not  there, 
the  art  is  bad,  however  dexterous. 

107.  But  also,  remember,  that  the  art-gift 
itself  is  only  the  result  of  the  moral  character 
of  generations.  A bad  woman  may  have  a 
sweet  voice;  but  that  sweetness  of  voice 
comes  of  the  past  morality  of  her  race. 
That  she  can  sing  with  it  at  all,  she  owes  to 
the  determination  of  laws  of  music  by  the 
morality  of  the  past.  Every  act,  every  im- 
pulse, of  virtue  and  vice,  affects  in  any  creat- 
ure, face,  voice,  nervous  power,  and  vigor 


156  Jibe  (Slueen  of  tbe  %ix, 

and  harmony  of  invention,  at  once.  Per- 
severance in  rightness  of  human  conduct  ren- 
ders, after  a certain  number  of  generations, 
human  art  possible  ; every  sin  clouds  it,  be  it 
ever  so  little  a one  ; and  persistent  vicious 
living  and  following  of  pleasure  render,  after 
a certain  number  of  generations,  all  art  im- 
possible. Men  are  deceived  by  the  long- 
suffering  of  the  laws  of  nature,  and  mistake, 
in  a nation,  the  reward  of  the  virtue  of  its 
sires,  for  the  issue  of  its  own  sins.  The  time 
of  their  visitation  will  come,  and  that  inevi- 
tably ; for,  it  is  always  true,  that  if  the 
fathers  have  eaten  sour  grapes,  the  children's 
teeth  are  set  on  edge.  And  for  the  individ- 
ual, as  soon  as  you  have  learned  to  read, 
you  may,  as  I said,  know  him  to  the  heart's 
core,  through  his  art.  Let  his  art-gift  be 
never  so  great,  and  cultivated  to  the  height 
by  the  schools  of  a great  race  of  men,  and  it 
is  still  but  a tapestry  thrown  over  his  own 
being  and  inner  soul ; and  the  bearing  of  it 
will  show,  infallibly,  whether  it  hangs  on  a 
man  or  on  a skeleton.  If  you  are  dim-eyed, 
you  may  not  see  the  difference  in  the  fall  of 
the  folds  at  first,  but  learn  how  to  look,  and 
the  folds  themselves  will  become  trans- 


XEbe  (auecn  of  tbe 


IS7 


parent,  and  you  shall  see  through  them  the 
death  s shape,  or  the  divine  one,  making  the 
tissue  above  it  as  a cloud  of  light,  or  as  a 
winding-sheet. 

io8.  Then  further,  observe,  I have  said 
(and  you  will  find  it  true,  and  that  to  the 
uttermost)  that,  as  all  lovely  art  is  rooted  in 
virtue,  so  it  bears  fruit  of  virtue,  and  is  didac- 
tic in  its  own  nature.  It  is  often  didactic 
also  in  actually  expressed  thought,  as  Giot- 
to's, Michael  Angelo's,  Dlirer's,  and  hundreds 
more  ; but  that  is  not  its  special  function  ; 
it  is  didactic  chiefly  by  being  beautiful ; but 
beautiful  with  haunting  thought,  no  less 
than  with  form,  and  full  of  myths  that  can 
be  read  only  with  the  heart. 

For  instance,  at  this  moment  there  is  open 
beside  me  as  I write,  a page  of  Persian 
manuscript,  wrought  with  wreathed  azure 
and  gold,  and  soft  green,  and  violet,  and 
ruby  and  scarlet,  into  one  field  of  pure  re- 
splendence. It  is  wrought  to  delight  the 
eyes  only ; and  does  delight  them  ; and 
the  man  who  did  it  assuredly  had  eyes  in 
his  head;  but  not  much  more.  It  is  not 
didactic  art,  but  its  author  was  happy  ; and 
it  will  do  the  good,  and  the  harm,  that  mere 


158  tCbe  (aueen  of  tbe  Sin 

pleasure  can  do.  But,  opposite  me,  is  an 
early  Turner  drawing  of  the  lake  of  Geneva, 
taken  about  two  miles  from  Geneva,  on  the 
Lausanne  road,  with  Mont  Blanc  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  old  city  is  seen  lying  beyond 
the  waveless  waters,  veiled  with  a sweet 
misty  veil  of  Athena's  weaving  ; a faint  light 
of  morning,  peaceful  exceedingly,  and  al- 
most colorless,  shed  from  behind  the  Voi- 
rons,  increases  into  soft  amber  along  the 
slope  of  the  Saleve,  and  is  just  seen,  and  no 
mope,  on  the  fair  warm  fields  of  its  summit, 
between  the  folds  of  a white  cloud  that  rests 
upon  the  grass,  but  rises,  high  and  tower- 
like, into  the  zenith  of  dawn  above. 

109.  There  is  not  as  much  color  in  that 
low  afnber  light  upon  the  hillside  as  there 
is  in  the  palest  dead  leaf.  The  lake  is  not 
blue,  but  gray  in  mist,  passing  into  deep 
shadow  beneath  the  Voirons’  pines  ; a few 
dark  clusters  of  leaves,  a single  white  flower 
— scarcely  seen — are  all  the  gladness  given 
to  the  rocks  of  the  shore.  One  of  the  ruby 
spots  of  the  eastern  manuscript  would  give 
color  enough  for  all  the  red  that  is  in  Tur- 
ner s entire  drawing.  For  the  mere  pleasure 
of  the  eye,  there  is  not  so  much  in  all  those 


ZTbe  (Slueen  of  tbc  %lt< 


159 


lines  of  his,  throughout  the  entire  landscape, 
as  in  half  an  inch  square  of  the  Persian's 
page.  What  made  him  take  pleasure  in  the 
low  color  that  is  only  like  the  brown  of  a 
dead  leaf.?  in  the  cold  gray  of  dawn — in  the 
one  white  flower  among  the  rocks — in  these 
— and  no  more  than  these  ? 

no.  He  took  pleasure  in  them  because  he 
had  been  bred  among  English  fields  and 
hills  ; because  the  gentleness  of  a great  race 
was  in  his  heart,  and  its  powers  of  thought 
in  his  brain  ; because  he  knew  the  stories  of 
the  Alps,  and  of  the  cities  at  their  feet ; be- 
cause he  had  read  the  Plomeric  legends  of 
the  clouds,  and  beheld  the  gods  of  dawn, 
and  the  givers  of  dew  to  the  fields  ; because 
he  knew  the  faces  of  the  crags,  and  the  im- 
agery of  the  passionate  mountains,  as  a man 
knows  the  face  of  his  friend  ; because  he 
had  in  him  the  wonder  and  sorrow  concern- 
ing life  and  death,  which  are  the  inheritance 
of  the  Gothic  soul  from  the  days  of  its  first 
sea  kings  ; and  also  the  compassion  and  the 
joy  that  are  woven  into  the  innermost  fabric 
of  every  great  imaginative  spirit,  born  now 
in  countries  that  have  lived  by  the  Christian 
faith  with  any  courage  or  truth.  And  the 


i6o  tCbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit. 

picture  contains  also,  for  us,  just  this  which 
its  maker  had  in  him  to  give  ; and  can  con- 
vey it  to  us,  just  so  far  as  we  are  of  the  tem- 
per in  which  it  must  be  received.  It  is 
didactic  if  we  are  worthy  to  be  taught,  not 
otherwise.  The  pure  heart,  it  will  make 
more  pure  ; the  thoughtful,  more  thought- 
ful. It  has  in  it  no  words  for  the  reckless  or 
the  ba^e. 

III.  As  I myself  look  at  it,  there  is  no 
fault  nor  folly  of  my  life — and  both  have 
been  many  and  great — that  does  not  rise  up 
against  me,  and  take  away  my  joy,  and 
shorten  my  power  of  possession  of  sight,  of 
understanding.  And  every  past  effort  of  my 
life,  every  gleam  of  rightness  or  good  in  it, 
is  with  me  now,  to  help  me  in  my  grasp  of 
this  art,  and  its  vision.  So  far  as  I can 
rejoice  in,  or  interpret  either,  my  power  is 
owing  to  what  of  right  there  is  in  me.  I dare 
to  say  it,  that,  because  through  all  my  life  I 
have  desired  good,  and  not  evil ; because  I 
have  been  kind  to  many  ; have  wished  to  be 
kind  to  all ; have  wilfully  injured  none  ; and 
because  I have  loved  much,  and  not  selfishly  ; 
therefore,  the  morning  light  is  yet  visible  to 
me  on  those  hills,  and  you,  who  read,  may 


tXbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  i6i 

trust  my  thought  and  word  in  such  work  as 
I have  to  do  for  you  ; and  you  will  be  glad 
afterwards  that  you  have  trusted  them. 

1 1 2.  Yet,  remember, — I repeat  it  again 
and  yet  again, — that  I may  for  once,  if  pos- 
sible, make  this  thing  assuredly  clear  : the 
inherited  art-gift  must  be  there,  as  well  as 
the  life  in  some  poor  measure,  or  rescued 
fragment,  right.  This  art-gift  of  mine  could 
not  have  been  won  by  any  work  or  by  any 
conduct : it  belongs  to  me  by  birthright,  and 
came  by  Athena's  will,  from  the  air  of  Eng- 
lish country  villages,  and  Scottish  hills.  I 
will  risk  whatever  charge  of  folly  may  come 
on  me,  for  printing  one  of  my  many  childish 
rhymes,  written  on  a frosty  day  in  Glen  Farg, 
just  north  of  Loch  Leven.  It  bears  date  ist 
January,  1828.  I was  born  on  the  8th  of 
February,  1819  ; and  all  that  I ever  could  be, 
and  all  that  I cannot  be,  the  weak  little 
rhyme  already  shows. 

“ Papa,  how  pretty  those  icicles  are, 

That  are  seen  so  near, — that  are  seen  so  far ; 

— Those  dropping  waters  that  come  from  the  rocks 
And  many  a hole,  like  the  haunt  of  a fox. 

That  silvery  stream  that  runs  babbling  along, 

Making  a murmuring,  dancing  song. 

II 


i62 


XTbe  (Siucett  of  tbc  Sir. 


Those  trees  that  stand  waving  upon  the  rock’s  side, 
And  men,  that,  like  spectres,  among  them  glide. 

And  waterfalls  that  are  heard  from  far. 

And  come  in  sight  when  very  near. 

And  the  water-wheel  that  turns  slowly  round, 
Grinding  the  corn  that — requires  to  be  ground, — 

(Political  Economy  of  the  future  !) 

— — And  mountains  at  a distance  seen, 

And  rivers  winding  through  the  plain. 

And  quarries  with  th-'ir  craggy  stones. 

And  the  wind  among  them  moans.” 

So  foretelling  Stones  of  Venice,  and  this 
essay  on  Athena. 

Enough  now  concerning  myself. 

1 13.  Of  Turner  s life,  and  of  its  good  and 
evil,  both  great,  but  the  good  immeasurably 
the  greater,  his  work  is  in  all  things  a per- 
fect and  transparent  evidence.  His  biogra- 
phy is  simply,  ''He  did  this,  nor  will  ever 
another  do  its  like  again.”  Yet  read  what  I 
have  said  of  him,  as  compared  with  the 
great  Italians,  in  the  passages  taken  from 
the  "Cestus  of  Aglaia,”  farther  on,  § 158,  pp. 
164,  165. 

1 14.  This,  then,  is  the  nature  of  the  con- 
nection between  morals  with  art.  Now, 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  2lin  163 

secondly,  I have  asserted  the  foundation  of 
both  these,  at  least  hitherto,  in  war.  The 
reason  of  this  too  manifest  fact  is,  that, 
until  now  it  has  been  impossible  for  any 
nation,  except  a warrior  one,  to  fix  its  mind 
wholly  on  its  men,  instead  of  on  their  posses- 
sions. Every  great  soldier  nation  thinks, 
necessarily,  first  of  multiplying  its  bodies 
and  souls  of  men,  in  good  temper  and  strict 
discipline.  As  long  as  this  is  its  poLtical 
aim,  it  does  not  matter  what  it  temporarily 
suffers,  or  loses,  either  in  numbers  or  in 
wealth  ; its  morality  and  its  arts  (if  it  havG 
national  art-gift)  advance  together  ; but  so 
soon  as  it  ceases  to  be  a warrior  nation,  it 
thinks  of  its  possessions  instead  of  its  men  ; 
and  then  the  moral  and  poetic  powers  vanish 
together. 

1 15.  It  is  thus,  however,  absolutely  nec- 
essary to  the  virtue  of  war  that  it  should  be 
waged  by  personal  strength,  not  by  money 
or  machinery.  A nation  that  fights  with  a 
mercenary  force,  or  with  torpedoes  instead  of 
its  own  arms,  is  dying.  Not  but  that  there 
is  more  true  courage  in  modern  than  even  in 
ancient  war ; but  this  is,  first,  because  all 
the  remaining  life  of  European  nations  is 


i64  ®ueen  of  tbe  Bit* 

with  a morbid  intensity  thrown  into  their 
soldiers  ; and,  secondly,  because  their  pres- 
ent heroism  is  the  culmination  of  centuries 
of  inbred  and  traditional  valor,  which  Athena 
taught  them  by  forcing  them  to  govern  the 
foam  of  the  sea- wave  and  of  the  horse, — not 
the  steam  of  kettles. 

1 1 6.  And  further,  note  this,  which  is  vital 
to  us  in  the  present  crisis  : If  war  is  to  be 
made  by  money  '^nd  machinery,  the  nation 
which  is  the  largest  and  most  covetous  mul- 
titude will  win.  You  may  be  as  scientific 
as  you  choose  ; the  mob  that  can  pay  more 
for  sulphuxic  acid  and  gunpowder  will  at 
last  poison  its  bullets,  throw  acid  in  your 
faces,  and  make  an  end  of  you ; of  itself, 
also,  in  good  time,  but  of  you  first.  And  to 
the  English  people  the  choice  of  its  fate 
is  very  near  now.  It  may  spasmodically 
defend  its  property  with  iron  walls  a fathom 
thick,  a few  years  longer — a very  few.  No 
walls  will  defend  either  it,  or  its  havings, 
against  the  multitude  that  is  breeding  and 
spreading  faster  than  the  clouds,  over  the 
habitable  earth.  We  shall  be  allowed  to 
live  by  small  pedler  s business,  and  iron- 
mongery— since  we  have  chosen  those  for 


XTbe  (Siueen  of  tbe  Bfr*  165 

our  line  of  life — as  long  as  we  are  found  useful 
black  servants  to  the  Americans,  and  are 
content  to  dig  coals  and  sit  in  the  cinders  ; 
and  have  still  coals  to  dig, — they  once  ex- 
hausted, or  got  cheaper  elsewhere,  we  shall 
be  abolished.  But  if  we  think  more  wisely, 
while  there?  is  yet  time,  and  set  our  minds 
again  on  multiplying  Englishmen,  and  not 
on  cheapening  English  wares,  if  we  resolve 
to  submit  to  wholesome  laws  of  labor  and 
economy,  and  setting  our  political  squabbles 
aside,  try  how  many  strong  creatures,  friend- 
ly and  faithful  to  each  other,  we  can  crowd 
into  every  spot  of  English  dominion,  neither 
poison  nor  iron  will  prevail  against  us  ; nor 
traffic,  nor  hatred  ; the  noble  nation  will  yet, 
by  the  grace  of  heaven,  rule  over  the  ignoble, 
and  force  of  heart  hold  its  own  against  fire- 
balls. 

1 1 7.  But  there  is  yet  a further  reason  for 
the  dependence  of  the  arts  on  war.  The 
vice  and  injustice  of  the  world  are  con- 
stantly springing  anew,  and  are  only  to  be 
subdued  by  battle  ; the  keepers  of  order  and 
law  must  always  be  soldiers.  And  now, 
going  back  to  the  myth  of  Athena,  we  see 
that  though  she  is  Erst  a warrior  maid,  she 


i66 


^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Blr. 


detests  war  for  its  own  sake ; she  arms 
Achilles  and  Ulysses  in  just  quarrels,  but 
she  disarms  Ares.  She  contends,  herself, 
continually  against  disorder  and  convulsion, 
in  the  earth  giants  ; she  stands  by  Hercules' 
side  in  victory  over  all  monstrous  evil  ; in 
justice  only  she  judges  and  makes  war.  But 
in  this  war  of  hers  she  is  wholly  implacablOo 
She  has  little  notion  of  converting  criminals. 
There  is  no  faculty  of  mercy  in  her  when 
she  has  been  resisted.  Her  word  is  only, 
will  mock  when  your  fear  cometh.''  Note 
the  words  that  follow:  ^‘when  your  fear 
cometh  as  desolation,  and  your  destruction 
as  a whirlwind ; ” for  her  wrath  is  of 
irresistible  tempest  ; once  roused,  it  is  blind 
and  deaf, — rabies — madness  of  anger — dark- 
ness of  the  Dies  Irae. 

And  that  is,  indeed,  the  sorrowfullest  fact 
we  have  to  know  about  our  own  several 
lives.  Wisdom  never  forgives.  Whatever 
resistance  we  have  offered  to  her  law,  she 
avenges  forever  ; the  lost  hour  can  never  be 
redeemed,  and  the  accomplished  wrong 
never  atoned  for.  The  best  that  can  be 
done  afterwards,  but  for  that,  had  been 
better ; the  falsest  of  all  the  cries  of  peace. 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Bfr*  167 

where  there  is  no  peace,  is  that  of  the 
pardon  of  sin,  as  the  mob  expect  it.  Wis- 
dom can  ''put  away''  sin,  but  she  cannot 
pardon  it ; and  she  is  apt,  in  her  haste,  to 
put  away  the  sinner  as  well,  when  the 
black  aegis  is  on  her  breast. 

1 1 8.  And  this  is  also  a fact  we  have  to 
know  about  our  national  life,  that  it  is  ended 
as  soon  as  it  has  lost  the  power  of  noble 
Anger.  When  it  paints  over,  and  apologizes 
for  its  pitiful  criminalities ; and  endures  its 
false  weights,  and  its  adulterated  food ; 
dares  not  to  decide  practically  between  good 
and  evil,  and  can  neither  honor  the  one, 
nor  smite  the  other,  but  sneers  at  the  good,  as 
if  it  were  bidden  evil,  and  consoles  the  evil 
with  pious  sympathy,  and  conserves  it  in  the 

sugar  of  its  leaden  heart, — the  end  is  come. 

1 1 9.  The  first  sign,  then,  of  Athena's 
presence  with  any  people  is  that  they  be- 
come warriors,  and  that  the  chief  thought 
of  every  man  of  them  is  to  stand  rightly  in 
his  rank,  and  not  fail  from  his  brother's  side 
in  battle.  Wealth,  and  pleasure,  and  even 
love,  are  all,  under  Athena's  orders,  sacrificed 
to  this  duty  of  standing  fast  in  the  rank  of 
war. 


i68  tlbe  (Siuecn  of  tbe  Sir. 

But  further  : Athena  presides  over  induS' 
try,  as  well  as  battle  ; typically,  over 
women's  industry  ; that  brings  comfort  with 
pleasantness.  Her  word  to  us  all  is  : ‘^Be 
well  exercised,  and  rightly  clothed.  Clothed, 
and  in  your  right  minds  ; not  insane  and  in 
rags,  nor  in  soiled  fine  clothes  clutched  from 
each  other’s  shoulders.  Fight  and.  weave. 
Then  I myself  will  answer  for  the  course  of 
the  lance,  and  the  colors  of  the  loom." 

And  now  I will  ask  the  reader  to  look 
with  some  care  through  these  following 
passages  respecting  modern  multitudes  and 
their  occupations,  written  long  ago,  but  left 
in  fragmentary  form,  in  which  they  must 
now  stay,  and  be  of  what  use  they  can. 

120.  It  is  not  political  economy  to  put  a 
number  of  strong  men  down  on  an  acre  of 
ground,  with  no  lodging,  and  nothing  to  eat. 
Nor  is  it  political  economy  to  build  a city 
on  good  ground,  and  fill  it  with  store  of 
corn  and  treasure,  and  put  a score  of  lepers 
to  live  in  it.  Political  economy  creates  to- 
gether the  means  of  life,  and  the  living 
persons  who  are  to  use  them  ; and  of  both, 
the  best  and  the  most  that  it  can,  but 
imperatively  the  best,  not  the  most.  A few 


XTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Sit*  169 

good  and  healthy  men,  rather  than  a multi- 
tude of  diseased  rogues  ; and  a little  real 
milk  and  wine  rather  than  much  chalk  and 
petroleum  ; but  the  gist  of  the  whole  busi- 
ness is  that  the  men  and  their  property  must 
both  be  produced  together — not  one  to  the 
loss  of  the  other.  Property  must  not  be 
created  in  lands  desolate  by  exile  of  their 
people,  nor  multiplied  and  depraved  human- 
ity, in  lands  barren  of  bread. 

1 2 1.  Nevertheless,  though  the  men  and 
their  possessions  are  to  be  increased  at  the 
same  time,  the  first  object  of  thought  is 
always  to  be  the  multiplication  of  a worthy 
people.  The  strength  of  the  nation  is  in  its 
multitude,  not  in  its  territory ; but  only  in 
its  sound  multitude.  It  is  one  thing,  both 
in  a man  and  a nation,  to  gain  flesh,  and 
another  to  be  swollen  with  putrid  humors. 
Not  that  multitude  ever  ought  to  be  incon- 
sistent with  virtue.  Two  men  should  be 
wiser  than  one,  and  two  thousand  than  two  ; 
nor  do  I know  another  so  gross  fallacy  in 
the  records  of  human  stupidity  as  that  excuse 
for  neglect  of  crime  by  greatness  of  cities. 
As  if  the  first  purpose  of  congregation  were 
not  to  devise  laws  and  repress  crimes  I As 


170 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


if  bees  and  wasps  could  live  honestly  in 
flocks — men,  only  in  separate  dens  ! As  it 
it  were  easy  to  help  one  another  on  the 
opposite  sides  of  a mountain,  and  impossible 
on  the  opposite  sides  of  a street ! But  when 
the  men  are  true  and  good,  and  stand 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  strength  of  any 
nation  is  in  its  quantity  of  life,  not  in  its  land 
nor  gold.  The  more  good  men  a state  has, 
in  proportion  to  its  territory,  the  stronger  the 
state.  And  as  it  has  been  the  madness  of 
economists  to  seek  for  gold  instead  of  life,  so 
it  has  been  the  madness  of  kings  to  seek  for 
land  instead  of  life.  They  want  the  town  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  seek  it  at  the 
spear  point ; it  never  enters  their  stupid 
heads  that  to  double  the  honest  souls  in  the 
town  on  /his  side  of.  the  river  would  make 
them  stronger  kings  ; and  that  this  doubling 
might  be  done  by  the  ploughshare  instead 
of  the  spear,  and  through  happiness  instead 
of  misery. 

Therefore,  in  brief,  this  is  the  object  of  all 
true  policy  and  true  economy  : ‘^utmost 
multitude  of  good  men  on  every  given  space 
of  ground  ” — imperatively  always  good^ 
sound,  honest  men, — not  a mob  of  whiter 


Zbc  (Slucen  of  tbe  Bit  17 1 

faced  thieves.  So  that,  on  the  one  hand  all 
aristocracy  is  wrong  which  is  inconsistent 
with  numbers  ; and  on  the  other  all  numbers 
are  wrong  which  are  inconsistent  with 
breeding. 

122.  Then,  touching  the  accumulation  of 
•wealth  for  the  maintenance  of  such  men, 
observe,  that  you  must  never  use  the  terms 
"‘money ''and  “wealth"  as  synonymous. 
Wealth  consists  of  the  good,  and  therefore 
useful,  things  in  the  possession  of  the 
nation  ; money  is  only  the  written  or  coined 
sign  of  the  relative  quantities  of  wealth  in 
each  person's  possession.  All  money  is  a 
divisible  title-deed,  of  immense  importance 
as  an  expressioa  of  right  to  property,  but 
absolutely  valueless  as  property  itself.  Thus, 
supposing  a nation  isolated  from  all  others, 
the  money  in  its  possession  is,  at  its  maxi- 
mum value,  worth  all  the  property  of  the 
nation,  and  no  more,  because  no  more  can  be 
got  for  it.  And  the  money  of  all  nations  is 
worth, ‘at  its  maximum,  the  property  of  all 
nations,  and  no  more,  for  no  more  can  be 
got  for  it.  Thus,  every  article  of  property 
produced  increases,  by  its  value,  the  value 
of  all  the  money  in  the  world,  and  every 


172 


tlbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  2lir* 


article  of  property  destroyed,  diminishes  the 
value  of  all  the  money  in  the  world.  If  ten 
men  are  cast  away  on  a rock,  with  a thou- 
sand pounds  in  their  pockets,  and  there  is 
on  the  rock,  neither  food  nor  shelter,  their 
money  is  worth  simply  nothing,  for  nothing 
is  to  be  had  for  it.  If  they  built  ten  huts, 
and  recover  a cask  of  biscuit  from  the  wreck, 
then  their  thousand  pounds,  at  its  maximum 
value,  is  worth  ten  huts  and  a cask  of  biscuit. 
If  they  make  their  thousand  pounds  into 
two  thousand  by  writing  new  notes,  their 
two  thousand  pounds  are  still  worth  ten 
huts  and  a cask  of  biscuit.  And  the  law  of 
relative  value  is  the  same  for  all  the  world, 
and  all  the  people  in  it,  and  all  their  prop- 
erty, as  for  ten  men  on  a rock.  Therefore, 
money  is  truly  and  finally  lost  in  the  degree 
in  which  its  value  is  taken  from  it  (ceasing 
in  that  degree  to  be  money  at  all)  ; and  it  is 
truly  gained  in  the  degree  in  which  value 
is  added  to  it.  Thus,  suppose  the  ^ money 
coined  by  the  nation  be  a fixed  sum,  divided 
very  minutely  (say  into  francs  and  cents), 
and  neither  to  be  added  to  nor  diminished. 
Then  every  grain  of  food  and  inch  of  lodg- 
ing added  to  its  possessions  makes  every 


Zbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe  Bit*  173 

cent  in  its  pockets  worth  proportionally 
more,  and  every  grain  of  food  it  consumes, 
and  inch  of  roof  it  allows  to  fall  to  ruin, 
makes  every  cent  in  its  pockets  worth  less  ; 
and  this  with  mathematical  precision.  The 
immediate  value  of  the  money  at  particular 
times  and  places  depends,  indeed,  on  the 
humors  of  the  possessors  of  property  ; but 
the  nation  is  in  the  one  case  gradually  get- 
ting richer,  and  will  feel  the  pressure  of  pov- 
erty steadily  everywhere  relaxing,  whatever 
the  humors  of  individuals  may  be  ; and,  in 
the  other  case,  is  gradually  growing  poorer, 
and  the  pressure  of  its  poverty  will  every  day 
tell  more  and  more,  in  ways  that  it  cannot 
explain,  but  will  most  bitterly  feel. 

123.  The  actual  quantity  of  money  which 
it  coins,  in  relation  to  its  real  property,  is 
therefore  only  of  consequence  for  conven- 
ience of  exchange  ; but  the  proportion  in 
which  this  quantity  of  money  is  divided 
among  individuals  expresses  their  various 
rights  to  greater  or  less  proportions  of  the 
national  property,  and  must  not,  therefore, 
be  tampered  with.  The  government  may 
at  any  time,  with  perfect  justice,  double  its 
issue  of  coinage,  if  it  gives  every  man  who 


174 


tibc  (Slucen  of  tbe  %iu 


had  ten  pounds  in  his  pocket  anothei  ten 
pounds,  and  every  man  who  had  ten  pence 
another  ten  pence  ; for  it  thus  does  not 
make  any  of  them  richer  ; it  merely  divides 
their  counters  for  thorn  into  twice  the  num- 
ber. But  if  it  gives  the  newly-issued  coins 
to  other  people,  or  keeps  them  itself,  it 
simply  robs  the  former  holders  to  precisely 
that  extent.  This  most  important  function 
of  money,  as  a title-deed,  on  the  non-viola- 
tion of  which  all  national  soundness  of  com- 
merce and  peace  of  life  depend,  has  been 
never  rightly  distinguished  by  economists 
from  the  quite  unimportant  function  of 
money  as  a means  of  exchange.  You  can 
exchange  goods — at  some  inconvenience, 
indeed,  but  still  you  can  contrive  to  do  it — 
without  money  at  all  ; but  you  cannot 
maintain  your  claim  to  the  savings  of  your 
past  life  without  a document  declaring  the 
amount  of  them,  which  the  nation  and  its 
government  will  respect. 

1 24.  And  as  economists  have  lost  sight  of 
this  great  function  of  money  in  relation  to 
individual  rights,  so  they  have  equally  lost 
sight  of  its  function  as  a representative  of 
good  things.  That,  for  every  good  thing 


XLbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Bin  175 

produced,  so  much  money  is  put  into  every- 
body's pocket,  is  the  one  simple  and  primal 
truth  for  the  public  to  know,  and  for  econ- 
omists to  teach.  How  many  of  them  have 
taught  it  ? Some  have  ; but  only  incident- 
ally ; and  others  will  say  it  is  a truism. 
If  it  be,  do  the  public  know  it  ? Does 
your  ordinary  English  householder  know 
that  every  costly  dinner  he  gives  has  de- 
stroyed forever  as  much  money  as  it  is 
worth  ? Does  every  well-educated  girl — do 
even  the  women  in  high  political  position — 
know  that  every  fine  dress  they  wear  them- 
selves, or  cause  to  be  worn,  destroys 
precisely  so  much  of  the  national  money  as 
the  labor  and  material  of  it  are  worth  ? It 
this  be  a truism,  it  is  one  that  needs  pro^ 
claiming  somewhat  louder. 

125.  That,  then,  is  the  relation  of  money 
and  goods.  So  much  goods,  so  much 
money ; so  little  goods,  so  little  money. 
But,  as  there  is  this  true  relation  between 
money  and  '"goods,"  or  good  things,  so 
there  is  a false  relation  between  money  and 
"bads,"  or  bad  things.  Many  bad  things 
will  fetch  a price  in  exchange  ; but  they  do 
not  increase  the  wealth  of  the  countr'j, 


176  ttbe  (aueen  of  tbe  B!r* 

Good  wine  is  wealth,  drugged  wine  is  not ; 
good  meat  is  wealth,  putrid  meat  is  not  ; 
good  pictures  are  wealth,  bad  pictures  are 
not.  A thing  is  worth  precisely  what  it  can 
do  for  you  ; not  what  you  choose  to  pay  for 
it.  You  may  pay  a thousand  pounds  for  a 
cracked  pipkin,  if  you  please  ; but  you  do 
not  by  that  transaction  make  the  cracked 
pipkin  worth  one  that  will  hold  water,  nor 
that,  nor  any  pipkin  whatsoever,  worth  more 
than  it  was  before  you  paid  such  sum  for  it. 
You  may,  perhaps,  induce  many  potters  to 
manufacture  fissured  pots,  and  many  ama- 
teurs of  clay  to  buy  them  ; but  the  nation  is, 
through  the  whole  business  so  encouraged, 
rich  by  the  addition  to  its  wealth  of  so  many 
potsherds, — and  there  an  end.  The  thing 
is  worth  what  it  can  do  for  you,  not  what 
you  think  it  can  ; and  most  national  luxuries, 
nowadays,  are  a form  of  potsherd,  provided 
for  the  solace  of  a self-complacent  Job,  vol- 
untary sedent  on  his  ash-heap. 

126.  And,  also,  so  far  as  good  things  al- 
ready exist,  and  have  become  media  of  ex- 
change, the  variations  in  their  prices  are  ab- 
solutely indifferent  to  the  nation.  Whether 
Mr,  A.  buys  a Titian  from  Mr.  B.  for  twenty, 


?rbe  (Slueen  of  tbc  Bit*  177 

or  for  two  thousand,  pounds,  matters  not 
sixpence  to  the  national  revenue ; that  is  to 
say,  it  matters  in  nowise  to  the  revenue 
whether  Mr.  A.  has  the  picture,  and  Mr.  B. 
the  money,  or  Mr.  B.  the  picture,  and  Mr. 
A.  the  money.  Which  f them  will  spend  the 
money  most  wisely,  and  which  of  them  will 
keep  the  pi  tur  most  carefully,  is,  indeed, 
a matter  of  some  importance  ; but  this  can- 
not be  known  by  the  mere  fact  of  exchange. 

127.  The  wealth  of  a nation  then,  first, 
and  its  peace  and  well-being  besides,  depend 
on  the  number  of  persons  it  can  employ  in 
making  good  and  useful  things.  I say  its 
well-being  also,  for  the  character  of  men  de- 
pends more  on  their  occupations  than  on 
any  teaching  we  can  give  them,  or  principles 
with  which  we  can  imbue  them.  The  em- 
ployment forms  the  habits  of  body  and  mind, 
and  these  are  the  constitution  of  the  man, — ■ 
the  greater  part  of  his  moral  or  persistent 
nature,  whatever  effort,  under  special  ex- 
citement, he  may  make  to  change  or  over- 
come them.  Employment  is  the  half,  and 
the  primal  half,  of  education — it  is  the  warp 
of  it ; and  the  fineness  or  the  endurance 
of  all  subsequently  woven  pattern  depends 
12 


178  ®be  (aueen  of  tbe 

wholly  on  its  straightness  and  strength. 
And,  whatever  difficulty  there  may  be  in 
tracing  through  past  history  the  remoter 
connections  of  event  and  cause,  one  chain 
of  sequence  is  always  clear  : the  formation, 
namely,  of  the  character  of  nations  by  their 
employments,  and  the  determination  of  their 
final  fate  by  their  character.  The  moment, 
and  the  first  direction  of  decisive  revolutions, 
often  depend  on  accident ; but  their  persist- 
ent course,  and  their  consequences,  depend 
wholly  on  the  nature  of  the  people.  The 
passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  by  the  late  Eng- 
lish Parliament  may  have  been  more  or 
less  accidental ; the  results  of  the  measure 
now  rest  on  the  character  of  the  English 
people,  as  it  has  been  developed  by  their 
recent  interests,  occupations,  and  habits  of 
life.  Whether,  as  a body,  they  employ 
their  new  powers  for  good  or  evil  will  de- 
pend, not  on  their  facilities  of  knowledge, 
nor  even  on  the  general  intelligence  they 
may  possess,  but  on  the  number  of  persons 
among  them  whom  wholesome  employ- 
ments have  rendered  familiar  with  the  duties, 
and  modest  in  their  estimate  of  the  promises, 
of  life. 


tlbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Btr* 


179 


128.  But  especially  in  framing  laws  re- 
specting the  treatment  or  employment  of  im- 
provident and  more  or  less  vicious  persons, 
it  is  to  be  remembered  that  as  men  are  not 
made  heroes  by  the  performance  of  an  act 
of  heroism,  but  must  be  brave  before  they 
can  perform  it,  so  they  are  not  made  vill  ins 
by  the  commission  of  a crime,  but  were  vil- 
lains before  they  committed  it  ; and  the  right 
of  public  interference  with  their  conduct 
begins  when  they  begin  to  corrupt  them- 
selves,— not  merely  at  the  moment  when 
they  have  proved  themselves  hopelessly 
corrupt. 

All  measures  of  reformation  are  effective 
in  exact  proportion  to  their  timeliness  : par- 
tial decay  may  be  cut  away  and  cleansed  ; 
incipient  error  corrected  ; but  there  is  a point 
at  which  corruption  can  no  more  be  stayed, 
nor  wandering  recalled.  It  has  been  the 
manner  of  modern  philanthropy  to  remain 
passive  until  that  precise  period,  and  to 
leave  the  sick  to  perish,  and  the  foolish 
to  stray,  while  it  spent  itself  in  frantic  exer- 
tions to  raise  the  dead,  and  reform  the  dust. 

The  recent  direction  of  a great  weight  of 
public  opinion  against  capital  punishment 


i5o  ^Tbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Uit. 

is,  I trust,  the  sign  of  an  awakening  percep- 
tion that  punishment  is  the  last  and  worst 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  legislator  for 
the  prevention  of  crime.  The  true  instru- 
ments of  reformation  are  employment  and 
reward ; not  punishment.  Aid  the  willing, 
honor  the  virtuous,  and  compel  the  idle  into 
occupation,  and  there  will  be  no  need  for 
the  compelling  of  any  into  the  great  and  last 
indolence  of  death. 

129.  The  beginning  of  all  true  reformation 
among  the  criminal  classes  depends  on  the 
establishment  of  institutions  for  their  active 
employment,  while  their  criminality  is  still 
unripe,  and  their  feelings  of  self-respect, 
capacities  of  affection,  and  sense  of  justice, 
not  altogether  quenched.  That  those  who 
are  desirous  of  employment  should  always 
be  able  to  find  it,  will  hardly,  at  the  pres- 
ent day,  be  disputed ; but  that  those  who 
are  ^^;zdesirous  of  employment  should  of  all 
persons  be  the  most  strictly  compelled  to  it, 
the  public  are  hardly  yet  convinced ; and 
they  must  be  convinced.  If  the  danger  of 
the  principal  thoroughfares  in  their  capital 
city,  and  the  multiplication  of  crimes  more 
ghastly  than  ever  yet  disgraced  a nominal 


TLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bin  i8i 

civilization,  are  not  enough,  they  will  not 
have  to  wait  long  before  they  receive  sterner 
lessons.  For  our  neglect  of  the  lower  orders 
has  reached  a point  at  which  it  begins  to 
bear  its  necessary  fruit,  and  every  day  makes 
the  fields,  not  whiter,  but  more  sable,  to 
harvest. 

130.  The  general  principles  by  which  em- 
ployment should  be  regulated  may  be  briefly 
stated  as  follows  : 

I.  There  being  three  great  classes  of  me- 
chanical powers  at  our  disposal,  namely,  (a) 
vital  or  muscular  power ; (b)  natural  me- 
chanical power  of  wind,  water,  and  electri- 
city ; and  (c)  artificially  produced  mechani- 
cal power ; it  is  the  first  principle  of  econ- 
omy to  use  all  available  vital  power  first, 
then  the  inexpensive  natural  forces,  and 
only  at  last  to  have  recourse  to  artificial 
power.  And  this  because  it  is  always  better 
for  a man  to  work  with  his  own  hands  to  feed 
and  clothe  himself,  than  to  stand  idle  while  a 
machine  works  for  him  ; and  if  he  cannot  by 
all  the  labor  healthily  possible  to  him  feed 
and  clothe  himself,  then  it  is  better  to  use 
an  inexpensive  machine — as  a windmill  or 
watermill — than  a costly  one  like  a steam* 


i82 


tibe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bir* 


engine,  so  long  as  we  have  natural  force 
enough  at  our  disposal.  Whereas  at  present 
we  continually  hear  economists  regret  that 
the  water-power  of  the  cascades  or  streams 
of  a country  should  be  lost,  but  hardly  ever 
that  the  muscular  power  of  its  idle  inhabit- 
ants should  be  lost ; and,  again,  we  see 
vast  districts,  as  the  south  of  Provence, 
where  a strong  wind  * blows  steadily  all  day 
long  for  six  days  out  of  seven  throughout 
the  year,  without  a windmill,  while  men  are 
continually  employed  a hundred  miles  to  the 
north,  in  digging  fuel  to  obtain  artificial 
power.  But  the  principal  point  of  all  to  be 
kept  in  view  is,  that  in  every  idle  arm  and 
shoulder  throughout  the  country  there  is  a 
certain  quantity  of  force,  equivalent  to  the 
force  of  so  much  fuel  ; and  that  it  is  mere 
insane  waste  to  dig  for  coal  for  our  force, 
while  the  vital  force  is  unused,  and  not  only 
unused,  but  in  being  so,  corrupting  and 
polluting  itself.  We  waste  our  coal,  and 
spoil  our  humanity  at  one  and  the  same  in- 
stant. Therefore,  wherever  there  is  an  idle 

* In  order  fully  to  utilize  this  natural  power,  we 
only  require  machinery  to  turn  the  variable  into  a con- 
stant velocity — no  insurmountable  difficulty. 


XTbe  (aueen  ot  tbe  Bin  183 

arm,  always  save  coal  with  it,  and  the  stores 
of  England  will  last  all  the  longer.  And 
precisely  the  same  argument  answers  the 
common  one  about  ''taking  employment 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  industrious  laborer.'’ 
Why,  what  is  ' ' employment  ” but  the  putting 
out  of  vital  force  instead  of  mechanical  force  ? 
We  are  continually  in  search  of  means  of 
strength  to  pull,  to  hammer,  to  fetch,  to 
carry.  We  waste  our  future  resources  to 
get  this  strength,  while  we  leave  all  the 
living  fuel  to  burn  itself  out  in  mere  pestif- 
erous breath,  and  production  of  its  variously 
noisome  forms  of  ashes  ! Clearly,  if  we 
want  fire  for  force,  we  want  men  for  force 
first.  The  industrious  hands  must  already 
have  so  much  to  do  that  they  can  do  no 
more,  or  else  we  need  not  use  machines  to 
help  them.  Then  use  the  idle  hands  first. 
Instead  of  dragging  petroleum  with  a steam- 
engine,  put  it  on  a canal,  and  drag  it  with 
human  arms  and  shoulders.  Petroleum  can- 
not possibly  be  in  a hurry  to  arrive  any- 
where. We  can  always  order  that,  and 
many  other  things,  time  enough  before  we 
want  it.  So,  the  carriage  of  everything 
which  does  not  spoil  by  keeping  may  most 


JTbe  (auecn  of  tbe  Bin 


184 

wholesomely  and  safely  be  done  by  water- 
traction  and  sailing-vessels  ; and  no  healthier 
work  can  men  be  put  to,  nor  better  dis- 
cipline, than  such  active  porterage. 

1 3 1.  (2d.)  In  employing  all  the  mus- 
cular power  at  our  disposal  we  are  to  make 
the  employments  we  choose  as  educational 
as  possible ; for  a wholesome  human  em- 
ployment is  the  first  and  best  method  of 
education,  mental  as  well  as  bodily.  A man 
taught  to  plough,  row,  or  steer  well,  and  a 
woman  taught  to  cook  properly,  and  make 
a dress  neatly,  are  already  educated  in  many 
essential  moral  habits.  Labor  considered 
as  a discipline  has  hitherto  been  thought  of 
only  for  criminals  ; but  the  real  and  noblest 
function  of  labor  is  to  prevent  crime,  and 
not  to  be  i^^formatory,  but  Formatory. 

132.  The  third  great  principle*  of  employ- 
ment is,  that  whenever  there  is  pressure  of 
poverty  to  be  met,  all  enforced  occupation 
should  be  directed  to  the  production  of  use- 
ful articles  only  ; that  is  to  say,  of  food,  of 
simple  clothing,  of  lodging,  or  of  the  means 
of  conveying,  distributing,  and  preserving 
these.  It  is  yet  little  understood  by  econo- 
mists, and  not  at  all  by  the  public,  that  the 


^be  (aueen  of  tbe  Mix.  185 

employment  of  persons  in  a useless  business 
cannot  relieve  ultimate  distress.  The  money 
given  to  employ  riband-makers  at  Coventry 
is  merely  so  much  money  withdrawn  from 
what  would  have  employed  lace-makers  at 
Honiton ; or  makers  of  something  else,  as 
useless,  elsewhere.  We  must  spend  our 
money  in  some  way,  at  some  time,  and  it 
cannot  at  any  time  be  spent  without  employ- 
ing somebody.  If  we  gamble  it  away,  the 
person  who  wins  it  must  spend  it ; if  we 
lose  it  in  a railroad  speculation,  it  has  gone 
into  some  one  else's  pockets,  or  merel) 
gone  to  pay  navvies  for  making  a uselesv 
embankment,  instead  of  to  pay  riband 
button  makers  for  making  useless  ribands 
buttons  ; we  cannot  lose  it  (unless  by  actu- 
ally destroying  it)  without  giving  employ- 
ment of  some  kind  ; and,  therefore,  whatevel 
quantity  of  money  exists,  the  relative 
quantity  of  employment  must  some  day 
come  out  of  it ; but  the  distress  of  the  nation 
signifies  that  the  employments  given  have 
produced  nothing  that  will  support  its 
existence.  Men  cannot  live  on  ribands,  or 
buttons,  or  velvet,  or  by  gqing  quickly  from 
place  to  place ; and  every  coin  spent  in 


286 


^be  (Sluecn  of  tbe  Btr* 


useless  ornament,  or  useless  motion,  is  so 
much  withdrawn  from  the  national  means 
of  life.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  uses  of 
railroads  is  to  enable  A to  travel  from  the 
town  of  X to  take  away  the  business  of  B 
in  the  town  of  Y ; while,  in  the  mean  time,  B 
travels  from  the  town  of  Y to  take  away  A's 
business  in  the  town  of  X.  But  the  national 
wealth  is  not  increased  by  these  operations. 
Whereas  every  coin  spent  in  cultivating 
ground,  in  repairing  lodging,  in  making 
necessary  and  good  roads,  in  preventing 
danger  by  sea  or  land,  and  in  carriage  of 
food  or  fuel  where  they  are  required,  is  so 
much  absolute  and  direct  gain  to  the  whole 
nation.  To  cultivate  land  round  Coventry 
makes  living  easier  at  Honiton,  and  every 
acre  of  sand  gained  from  the  sea  in  Lincoln- 
shire, makes  life  easier  all  over  England. 

4th,  and  lastly.  Since  for  every  idle  per- 
son some  one  else  must  be  working  some- 
where to  provide  him  with  clothes  and  food, 
and  doing,  therefore,  double  the  quantity  of 
work  that  would  be  enough  for  his  own 
needs,  it  is  only  a matter  of  pure  justice  to 
compel  the  idle  person  to  work  for  his 
maintenance  himself.  The  conscription  has 


Zbc  (aueen  ot  tbe  Hit*  187 

been  used  in  many  countries  to  take  away 
laborers  who  supported  their  families,  from 
their  useful  work,  and  maintain  them  for 
purposes  chiefly  of  military  display  at  the 
public  expense.  Since  this  has  been  long 
endured  by  the  most  civilized  nations,  let  it 
not  be  thought  they  would  not  much  more 
gladly  endure  a conscription  which  should 
seize  only  the  vicious  and  idle,  already  living 
by  criminal  procedures  at  the  public  ex- 
pense ; and  which  should  discipline  and 
educate  them  to  labor  which  would  not  only 
maintain  themselves,  but  be  serviceable  to 
the  commonwealth.  The  question  is  simply 
this  : we  must  feed  the  drunkard,  vagabond, 
and  thief;  but  shall  we  do  so  by  letting 
them  steal  their  food,  and  do  no  work  for  it  ? 
or  shall  we  give  them  their  food  in  appointed 
quantity,  and  enforce  their  doing  work 
which  shall  be  worth  it,  and  which,  in 
process  of  time,  will  redeem  their  own 
characters  and  make  them  happy  and  service- 
able members  of  society  ? 

I find  by  me  a violent  little  fragment  of 
undelivered  lecture,  which  puts  this,  perhaps, 
still  more  clearly.  Your  idle  people  (it  says), 
as  they  are  now,  are  not  merely  waste  coal- 


i88 


XLbc  (^ueen  pt  tbe  Bir* 


beds.  They  are  explosive  coal-beds,  which 
you  pay  a high  annual  rent  for.  You  are 
keeping  all  these  idle  persons,  remember,  at 
far  greater  cost  than  if  they  were  busy.  Do 
you  think  a vicious  person  eats  less  than  an 
honest  one  ? or  that  it  is  cheaper  to  keep  a 
bad  man  drunk,  than  a good  man  sober.? 
There  is,  I suppose,  a dim  idea  in  the  mind 
of  the  public,  that  they  don’t  pay  for  the 
maintenance  of  people  they  don’t  employ. 
Those  staggering  rascals  at  the  street  corner, 
grouped  around  its  splendid  angle  of  public- 
house,  we  fancy  that  they  are  no  servants 
of  ours  ! that  we  pay  them  no  wages  ! that 
no  cash  out  of  our  pockets  is  spent  over  that 
beer-stained  counter  ! 

Whose  cash  is  it  then  they  are  spending? 
It  is  not  got  honestly  by  work.  You  know 
that  much.  Where  do  they  get  it  from  ? 
Who  has  paid  for  their  dinner  and  their  pot  ? 
Those  fellows  can  only  live  in  one  of  two 
ways — by  pillage  or  beggary.  Their  annual 
income  by  thieving  comes  out  of  the  public 
pocket,  you  will  admit.  They  are  not 
cheaply  fed,  so  far  as  they  are  fed  by  theft. 
But  the  rest  of  their  living — all  that  they  don’t 
steal — they  must  beg.  Not  with  success 


Zbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe  189 

from  you,  you  think.  Wise,  as  benevolent, 
you  never  gave  a penny  in  indiscriminate 
charity.''  Well,  I congratulate  you  on  the 
freedom  of  your  conscience  from  that  sin, 
mine  being  bitterly  burdened  with  the  mem- 
ory of  many  a sixpence  given  to  beggars  of. 
whom  I knew  nothing  but  that  they  had 
pale  faces  and  thin  waists.  But  it  is  not  that 
kind  of  street  beggary  that  the  vagabonds  of 
our  people  chiefly  practise.  It  is  home  beg- 
gary that  is  the  worst  beggars'  trade.  Home 
alms  which  it  is  their  worst  degradation  to 
receive.  Those  scamps  know  well  enough 
that  you  and  your  wisdom  are  worth  noth- 
ing to  them.  They  won’t  beg  of  you. 
They  will  beg  of  their  sisters,  and  mothers, 
and  wives,  and  children,  and  of  any  one  else 
who  is  enough  ashamed  of  being  of  the  same 
blood  with  them  to  pay  to  keep  them  out  of 
sight.  Every  one  of  those  blackguards  is 
the  bane  of  a family.  That  \s  the  deadly 
‘'indiscriminate  charity  " — the  charity  which 
each  household  pays  to  maintain  its  own 
private  curse. 

133.  And  you  think  that  is  no  affair  of 
yours.?  and  that  every  family  ought  to 
watch  over  and.  subdue  its  own  living 


tTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  atr* 


190 

plague  ? Put  it  to  yourselves  this  way,  then  : 
suppose  you  knew  every  one  of  those  families 
kept  an  idol  in  an  inner  room — a big-bellied 
bronze  figure,  to  which  daily  sacrifice  and 
oblation  was  made  ; at  whose  feet  so  much 
beer  and  brandy  was  poured  out  every  morn- 
ing on  the  ground  ; and  before  which,  every 
night,  good  meat,  enough  for  two  men's 
keep,  was  set,  and  left,  till  it  was  putrid,  and 
then  carried  out  and  thrown  on  the  dunghill  ; 
you  would  put  an  end  to  that  form  of  idol- 
atry with  your  best  diligence,  I suppose. 
You  would  understand  then  that  the  beer, 
and  brandy,  and  meat,  were  wasted  ; and 
that  the  burden  imposed  by  each  house- 
hold on  itself  lay  heavily  through  them  on  the 
whole  community.?  But,  suppose  further, 
that  this  idol  were  not  of  silent  and  quiet 
bronze  only,  but  an  ingenious  mechanism, 
wound  up  every  morning,  to  run  itself  down 
in  automatic  blasphemies  ; that  it  struck  and 
tore  with  its  hands  the  people  who  set  food 
before  it ; that  it  was  anointed  with  poison- 
ous unguents,  and  infected  the  air  for  miles 
round.  You  would  interfere  with  the  idol- 
atry then,  straightway  ? Will  you  not  inter- 
fere with  it  now.  when  the  infection  that  the 


XTbe  (Hueen  of  tbe  Miu  191 

venomous  idol  spreads  is  not  merely  death, 
but  sin  ? 

134.  So  far  the  old  lecture.  Returning  to 
cool  English,  the^end  of  the  matter  is,  that, 
sooner  or  later,  we  shall  have  to  register  our 
people ; and  to  know  how  they  live ; and 
to  make  sure,  if  they  are  capable  of  work, 
that  right  work  is  given  them  to  do. 

The  different  classes  of  work  for  which 
bodies  of  men  could  be  consistently  organ- 
ized, might  ultimately  become  numerous  ; 
these  following  divisions  of  occupation  may 
at  once  be  suggested  : 

1 . Road-making.  — Good  roads  to  be  made, 
wherever  needed,  and  kept  in  repair ; and 
the  annual  loss  on  unfrequented  roads,  in 
spoiled  horses,  strained  wheels,  and  time, 
done  away  with. 

2.  Bringing  in  of  waste  land. — All  waste 
lands  not  necessary  for  public  health,  to  be 
made  accessible  and  gradually  reclaimed  ; 
chiefly  our  wide  and  waste  seashores.  Not 
our  mountains  nor  moorland.  Our  life  de- 
pends on  them,  more  than  on  the  best  arable 
we  have. 

3.  Harbor-making. — The  deficiencies  of 
•afe  or  convenient  harborage  in  our  smaller 


192 


^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bir* 


ports  to  be  remedied  ; other  harbors  built  at 
dangerous  points  of  coast,  and  a disciplined 
body  of  men  always  kept  in  connection  with 
the  pilot  and  life-boat  services.  There  is 
room  for  every  order  of  intelligence  in  this 
work,  and  for  a large  body  of  superior  officers. 

4.  Porterage. — All  heavy  goods,  not  re- 
quiring speed  in  transit,  to  be  carried  (under 
preventive  duty  on  transit,  by  railroad)  by 
canal-boats,  employing  men  for  draught  ; 
and  the  merchant-shipping  service  extended 
by  sea ; so  that  no  ships  may  be  wrecked 
for  want  of  hands,  while  there  are  idle  ones 
in  mischief  on  shore. 

5.  Repair  of  buildings. — A body  of  men  in 
various  trades  to  be  kept  at  the  disposal  of 
the  authorities  in  every  large  town,  for  re- 
pair of  buildings,  especially  the  houses  of 
the  poorer  orders,  who,  if  no  such  provisions 
were  made,  could  not  employ  workmen  on 
their  own  houses,  but  would  simply  live 
with  rent  walls  and  roofs. 

6.  Dressmaking. — Substantial  dress,  of 
standard  material  and  kind,  strong  shoes, 
and  stout  bedding,  to  be  manufactured  for 
the  poor,  so  as  to  render  it  unnecessary  for 
them,  unless  by  extremity  of  improvidence, 


XLbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe  Bit.  193 

lo  wear  cast  clothes,  or  be  w-[thout  suffici- 
ency of  clothing. 

7.  Works  of  Art, — Schools  to  be  estab- 
lished on  thoroughly  sound  principles  of 
manufacture,  and  use  of  materials,  and  with 
sample  and,  for  given  periods,  unalterable 
modes  of  work  ; first,  in  pottery,  and  em- 
bracing gradually  metal  work,  sculpture, 
and  decorative  painting ; the  two  points 
insisted  upon,  in  distinction  from  ordinary 
commercial  establishments,  being  perfect- 
ness of  material  to  the  utmost  attainable  de- 
gree ; and  the  production  of  everything  by 
hand-work,  for  the  special  purpose  of  de- 
veloping personal  power  and  skill  in  the 
workman. 

The  last  two  departments,  and  some  sub- 
ordinate branches  of  others,  would  include 
the  service  of  women  and  children. 

I give  now,  for  such  further  illustrations 
as  they  contain  of  the  points  I desire  most 
to  insist  upon  with  respect  both  to  education 
and  employment,  a portion  of  the  series  of 
notes  published  some  time  ago  in  the  Art 
Journal,'’  on  the  opposition  of  Modesty  and 
Liberty,  and  the  unescapable  law  of  wise 
restraint.  I am  sorry  that  they  are  written 

n 


194 


Zbc  (Siueen  of  tbe  Sfn 


obscurely — and  it  maybe  thought  affectedly  ; 
but  the  fact  is,  I have  always  had  three  dif- 
ferent ways  of  writing  : one,  with  the  single 
view  of  making  myself  understood,  in  which 
I necessarily  omit  a great  deal  of  what  comes 
into  my  head  ; another,  in  which  I say 
what  I think  ought  to  be  said,  in  what  I sup- 
pose to  be  the  best  words  I can  find  for  it 
(which  is  in  reality  an  affected  style^ — be  it 
good  or  bad)  ; and  my  third  way  of  writing 
is  to  say  all  that  comes  into  my  head  for  my 
own  pleasure,  in  the  first  words  that  come, 
retouching  them  afterwards  into  (approxi- 
mate) grammar.  These  notes  for  the  ‘‘Art 
Journal''  were  so  written  ; and  I like  them 
myself,  of  course  ; but  ask  the  reader's  par- 
don for  their  confusedness. 

135.  “Sir,  it  cannot  be  better  done." 

We  will  insist,  with  the  reader's  permis- 
sion, on  this  comfortful  saying  of  Albert 
Diirer's  in  order  to  find  out,  if  we  may,  what 
Modesty  is  ; which  it  will  be  well  for  paint- 
ers, readers,  and  especially  critics,  to  know, 
before  going  farther.  What  it  is  ; or,  rather, 
who  she  is,  her  fingers  being  afnong  the 
deftest  in  laying  the  ground-threads  of 
Aglaia's  cestus. 


Zbc  (Sluecn  of  tbe  Bfr*  195 

For  this  same  opinion  of  Albert's  is  enter- 
tained by  many  other  people  respecting  their 
own  doings — a very  prevalent  opinion, 
indeed,  I find  it ; and  the  answer  itself, 
though  rarely  made  with  the  Nuremberger's 
crushing  decision,  is  nevertheless  often 
enough  intimated,  with  delicacy,  by  artists 
of  all  countries,  in  their  various  dialects. 
Neither  can  it  always  be  held  an  entirely 
modest  one,  as  it  assuredly  was  in  the  man 
who  would  sometimes  estimate  a piece  of  his 
unconquerable  work  at  only  the  worth  of  a 
plate  of  fruit,  or  a flask  of  wine — would  have 
have  taken  even  one  ‘^fig  for  it,"  kindly 
otTered  ; or  given  it  royally  for  nothing,  to 
show  his  hand  to  a fellow-king  of  his  own, 
or  any  other  craft — as  Gainsborough  gave 
the  ‘'Boy  at  the  Stile"  for  a solo  on  the 
violin.  An  entirely  modest  saying,  I repeat, 
in  him — not  always  in  us.  For  Modesty  is 
“ the  measuring  virtue,"  the  virtue  of  modes 
or  limits.  She  is,  indeed,  said  to  be  only  the 
third  or  youngest  of  the  children  of  the  car- 
dinal virtue.  Temperance  ; and  apt  to  be 
despised,  being  more  given  to  arithmetic, 
and  other  vulgar  studies  (Cinderella-like), 
than  her  elder  sisters  ; but  she  is  useful  in 


f 


196  Zbc  (Slueen  ot  tbe  Bin 

the  household,  and  arrives  at  great  results 
with  her  yard-measure  and  slate-pencil — a 
pretty  little  Marchande  des  Modes,  cutting 
her  dress  always  according  to  the  silk  (if  this 
be  the  proper  feminine  reading  of  ^'coat 
according  to  the  cloth so  that,  consulting 
with  her  carefully  of  a morning,  men  get  to 
know  not  only  their  income,  but  their  in 
being — to  know  themselves,  that  is,  in  a 
gauger's  manner,  round,  and  up  and  down 
— surface  and  contents  ; what  is  in  them 
and  what  may  be  got  out  of  them  ; and, 
in  fine,  their  entire  canon  of  weight  and 
capacity.  That  yard-measure  of  Modesty's, 
lent  to  those  who  will  use  it,  is  a curious 
musical  reed,  and  will  go  round  and  round 
waists  that  are  slender  enough,  with  latent 
melody  in  every  joint  of  it,  the  dark  root 
only  being  soundless,  moist  from  the  wave 
wherein 

“ Null’  altrapianta  che  facesse  fronda 
O che  ’n  durasse,  vi  puote  aver  vita.”  * 

But  when  the  little  sister  herself  takes  it  in 
hand,  to  measure  things  outside  of  us  with, 
the  joints  shoot  out  in  an  amazing  manner  : 

* « Purgatorio,”  i.  108,  109. 


^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bin  197 

the  four-square  walls  even  of  celestial  cities 
being  measurable  enough  by  that  reed  ; 
and  the  way  pointed  to  them,  though  only 
to  be  followed,  or  even  seen,  in  the  dim 
starlight  shed  down  from  worlds  amidst 
which  there  is  no  name  of  Measure  any 
more,  though  the  reality  of  it  always.  For, 
indeed,  to  all  true  modesty  the  necessary 
business  is  not  inlook,  but  outlook,  and 
especially  uplook  : it  is  only  her  sister 
Shamefacedness,  who  is  known  by  the 
drooping  lashes — Modesty,  quite  otherwise, 
by  her  large  eyes  full  of  wonder ; for  she 
never  contemns  herself,  nor  is  ashamed  of 
herself,  but  forgets  herself — at  least  until  she 
has  done  something  worth  memory.  It  is 
easy  to  peep  and  potter  about  one's  own 
deficiencies  in  a quiet  immodest  discontent ; 
but  Modesty  is  so  pleased  with  other  people's 
doings,  that  she  has  no  leisure  to  lament  her 
own  : and  thus,  knowing  the  fresh  feeling  of 
contentment,  unstained  with  thought  of  self, 
she  does  not  fear  being  pleased,  when  there 
is  cause,  with  her  own  rightness,  as  with 
another's,  saying  calmly,  ^'Be  it  mine  or 
yours,  or  whose  else's  it  may,  it  is  no  mat- 
ter ; this  also  is  well."  But  the  right  to  say 


198  (Slueen  oi  tbe  Bit* 

such  a thing*  depends  on  continual  reverence 
and  manifold  sense  of  far  - ire.  If  you  have 
known  yourself  to  have  foiled,  you  may  trust, 
when  it  comes,  the  strange  consciousness  of 
success  ; if  you  have  faithfully  loved  the 
noble  work  of  others,  you  need  not  fear  to 
speak  with  respect  o^  things  duly  done,  of 
your  own. 

136.  But  the  principal  good  that  comes  of 
art  being  followed  in  this  reverent  feeling  is 
vitally  manifest  in  the  associative  conditions 
of  it.  Men  who  know  their  place  can  take 
it  and  keep  it,  be  it  low  or  high,  contentedly 
and  firmly,  neither  yielding  nor  grasping ; 
and  the  harmony  of  hand  and  thought  fol- 
lows, rendering  *11  great  deeds  of  art  pos- 
sible— deeds  in  which  the  souls  of  men  meet 
like  the  jewels  in  the  windows  of  Aladdin's 
palace,  the  little  gems  and  the  large  all 
equally  pure,  needing  no  cement  but  the 
fitting  of  facets  ; while  the  associative  work 
of  immodest  men  is  all  jointless,  and  astir 
with  wormy  ambition  ; putridly  dissolute, 
and  forever  on  the  crawl  : so  that  if  it  come 
together  for  a time,  it  can  only  be  by  meta- 
morphosis through  flash  of  volcanic  fire  out 
of  the  vale  of  Siddim,  vitrifying  the  clay 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Blr* 


199 


it,  and  fastening  the  slime,  only  to  end  in 
wilder  scattering ; according  to  the  fate 
of  those  oldest,  mightier,  immodestest  o{ 
builders,  of  whom  it  is  told  in  scorn,  ‘^They 
had  brick  for  ston%  and  slime  had  they  for 
mortar.  ” 

137.  The  first  function  of  Modesty,  then, 
being  this  recognition  of  place,  her  second 
is  the  recognition  of  law,  and  delight  in  it, 
for  the  sake  of  law  itself,  whether  her  part 
be  to  assert  it,  or  obey.  For  as  it  belongs 
to  all  immodesty  to  defy  or  deny  law,  and 
assert  privilege  and  license,  according  to  its 
own  pleasure  (it  being  therefore  rightly 
called  ' ‘ insolen//’  that  is,  custom-break- 
ing,'’ violating  some  usual  and  appointed 
order  to  attain  for  itself  greater  forwardness 
or  power),  so  it  is  the  habit  of  all  modesty 
to  love  the  constancy  and  ''  solemniij,”  or, 
literally,  accustomediiess,"  of  law,  seek- 
ing first  what  are  the  solemn,  appointed, 
inviolable  customs  and  general  orders  of 
nature,  and  of  the  Master  of  nature;  touch- 
ing the  matter  in  hand  ; and  striving  to  put 
itself,  as  habitually  and  inviolably,  in  com- 
pliance with  them.  Out  of  which  habit, 
once  established,  arises  what  is  rightly 


200 


Zbc  (Slueen  ot  tbe 


called  conscience/'  not  science  ” merely, 
but  with-science/'  a science  ''with  us/’ 
such  as  only  mode^  creatures  can  have — 
with  or  within  them — and  within  all  creation 
besides,  every  member  of  it,  strong-  or  weak, 
witnessing  together,  and  joining  in  the 
happy  consciousness  that  each  one's  work 
is  good ; the  bee  also  being  profoundly  of 
that  opinion  ; and  the  lark  ; and  the  swallow, 
in  that  noisy,  but  modestly  upside-down, 
Babel  of  hers,  under  the  eaves,  with  its  un- 
volcanic  slime  for  mortar  ; and  the  two  ants 
who  are  asking  of  each  other  at  the  turn  of 
that  little  ant’s-foot-worn  path  through  the 
moss  "lor  via  e lor  fortuna;"  and  the 
builders  also,  who  built  yonder  pile  of  cloud- 
marble  in  the  west,  and  the  gilder  who  gilded 
it,  and  is  gone  down  behind  it. 

138.  But  I think  we  shall  better  under- 
stand what  we  ought  of  the  nature  of 
Modesty,  and  of  her  opposite,  by  taking  a 
simple  instance  of  both,  in  the  practice  of 
that  art  of  music  which  the  wisest  have 
agreed  in  thinking  the  first  element  of  edu- 
cation ; only  I must  ask  the  reader's  patience 
with  me  through  a parenthesis. 

Among  the  foremost  men  whose  power 


Cbe  (aucen  ot  tbe 


201 


has  had  to  assert  itself,  though  with  con- 
quest, yet  with  countless  loss,  through 
peculiarly  English  disadvantages  of  circum- 
stance, are  assuredly  to  be  ranked  together, 
both  for  honor,  and  for  mourning,  Thomas 
Bewick  and  George  Cruikshank.  There  is, 
however,  less  cause  for  regret  in  the  instance 
of  Bewick.  We  may  understand  that  it  was 
well  for  us  once  to  see  what  an  entirely 
powerful  painter’s  genius,  and  an  entirely 
keen  and  true  man  s temper,  could  achieve, 
together,  unhelped,  but  also  unharmed, 
among  the  black  banks  and  wolds  of  Tyne. 
But  the  genius  of  Cruikshank  has  been  cast 
away  in  an  utterly  ghastly  and  lamentable 
manner  : his  superb  line-work,  worthy  of 
any  class  of  subject,  and  his  powers  of  con- 
ception and  composition,  of  which  I cannot 
venture  to  estimate  the  range  in  their  de- 
graded application,  having  been  condemned, 
by  his  fate,  to  be  spent  either  in  rude  jesting, 
or  in  vain  war  with  conditions  of  vice  too 
low  alike  for  record  or  rebuke,  among  the 
dregs  of  the  British  populace.  Yet  perhaps 
I am  wrong  in  regretting  even  this  : it  may 
be  an  appointed  lesson  for  futurity,  that  the 
art  of  the  best  English  etcher  in  the  nine- 


202  ITbe  (aueen  of  tbe  Uit. 

teenth  century,  spent  on  illustrations  of  the 
lives  of  burglars  and  drunkards,  should  one 
day  be  seen  in  museums  beneath  Greek 
vases  fretted  with,  drawings  of  the  wars  of 
Troy,  or  side  by  side  with  Diirer's  '^Knight 
and  Death/' 

139.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I am  at  present 
glad  to  be  able  to  refer  to  one  of  these  per- 
petuations, by  his  strong  hand,  of  such 
human  character  as  our  faultless  British 
constitution  occasionally  produces  in  out-of- 
the-way  corners.  It  is  among  his  illustra- 
tions of  the  Irish  Rebellion,  and  represents 
the  pillage  and  destruction  of  a gentleman's 
house  by  the  mob.  They  have  made  a heap 
in  the  drawing-room  of  the  furniture  and 
books,  to  set  first  fire  to  ; and  are  tearing  up 
the  floor  for  its^  more  easily  kindled  planks, 
the  less  busily-disposed  meanwhile  hacking 
round  in  rage,  with  axes,  and  smashing 
what  they  can  with  butt-ends  of  guns.  I do 
not  care  to  follow  with  words  the  ghastly 
truth  of  the  picture  into  its  detail  ; but  the 
most  expressive  incident  of  the  whole,  and 
the  one  immediately  to  my  purpose,  is 
this,  that  one  fellow  has  sat  himself  at  the 
piano,  on  which,  hitting  down  fiercely  with 


Zbc  (Slueen  ot  tbe  Bit*  203 

his  clenched  fists,  he  plays,  grinning*,  such 
tune  as  may  be  so  producible,  to  which 
melody  two  of  his  companions,  flourishing 
knotted  sticks,  dance,  after  their  manner,  on 
the  top  of  the  instrument. 

140.  I think  we  have  in  this  conception 
as  perfect  an  instance  as  we  require  of  the 
lowest  supposable  phase  of  immodest  or 
licentious  art  in  music;  the  ‘‘inner  con- 
sciousness of  good  being  dim,  even  in  the 
musician  and  his  audience,  and  wholly  un- 
sympathized with,  and  unacknowledged  by 
the  Delphian,  Vestal,  and  all  other  prophetic 
and  cosmic  powers.  This  represented 
scene  came  into  my  mind  suddenly  one 
evening,  a few  weeks  ago,  in  contrast  with 
another  which  I was  watching  in  its  reality  ^ 
namely,  a group  of  gentle  school-girls,  lean- 
ing over  Mr.  Charles  Halle,  as  he  was  play- 
ing a variation  on  “ Home,  Sweet  Home."' 
They  had  sustained  with  unwonted  courage 
the  glance  of  subdued  indignation  with 
\^hich,  having  just  closed  a rippling  melody 
of  Sebastian  Bach's  (much  like  what  one 
might  fancy  the  sing’ing  of  nightingales 
would  be  if  they  fed  on  honey  instead  of 
flies),  he  turned  to  the  slight,  popular  air. 


204 


XLbc  (aueen  of  tbc  Bfr. 


But  they  had  their  own  associations  with  it 
and  besought  for,  and  obtained  it,  an(^ 
pressed  close,  at  first,  in  vain,  to  see  whaf 
no  glance  could  follow,  the  traversing  of  the 
fingers.  They  soon  thought  no  more  of 
seeing.  The  wet  eyes,  round-open,  and 
the  little  scarlet  upper  lips,  lifted,  and  drawn 
slightly  together,  in  passionate  glow  of  uttei 
wonder,  became  picture-like,  porcelain-like, 
in  motionless  joy,  as  the  sweet  multitude  of 
low  notes  fell,  in  their  timely  infinities,  like 
summer  rain.  Only  La  Robbia  himself 
(nor  even  he,  unless  with  tenderer  use 
of  color  than  is  usual  in  his  work)  could 
have  rendered  some  image  of  that  listen- 
ing. 

14 1.  But  if  the  reader  can  give  due  vi- 
tality in  his  fancy  to  these  two  scenes,  he 
will  have  in  them  representative  types, 
clear  enough  for  all  future  purpose,  of  the 
several  agencies  of  debased  and  perfect  art. 
And  the  interval  may  easily  and  continu- 
ously be  filled  by  mediate  gradations.  Be- 
tween the  entirely  immodest,  unmeasured, 
and  (in  evil  sense)  unmannered,  execution 
with  the  fist ; and  the  entirely  modest, 
measured,  and  (in  the  noblest  sense)  maiv 


?rbe  (Siueen  of  tbe  Uit.  205 

nered,  or  morard  execution  with  the  finger ; 
between  , the  impatient  and  unpractised 
doing,  containing  in  itself  the  witness  of 
lasting  impatience  and  idleness  through 
all  previous  life,  and  the  patient  and  prac- 
tised doing,  containing  in  itself  the  witness 
of  self-restraint  and  unwearied  toil  through 
all  previous  life ; between  the  expressed 
subject  and  sentiment  of  home  violation, 
and  the  expressed  subject  and  sentiment 
of  home  love ; between  the  sympathy  of 
audience,  given  in  irreverent  and  contempt- 
uous rage,  joyless  as  the  rabidness  of  a 
dog,  and  the  sympathy  of  audience  given 
in  an  almost  appalled  humility  of  intense, 
rapturous,  and  yet  entirely  reasoning 
and  reasonable  pleasure ; between  these 
two  limits  of  octave,  the  reader  will  find  he 
can  class,  according  to  its  modesty,  useful- 
ness, and  grace,  or  becomingness,  all  other 
musical  art.  For  although  purity  of  purpose 
and  fineness  of  execution  by  no  means  go 
together,  degree  to  degree  (since  fine,  and 
indeed  all  but  the  finest,  work  is  often  spent 
in  the  most  wanton  purpose — as  in  all  our 
modern  opera — and  the  rudest  execution  is 
again  often  joined  with  purest  purpose,  as 


2o6  TLbc  (aueen  of  tbc  Btr. 

in  a mother’s  song  to  her  child),  still  the 
entire  accomplishment  of  music  is  only  in 
the  union  of  both.  For  the  difference  be- 
tween that  all  but  finest  and  finest'’  is 
an  infinite  one  ; and  besides  this,  however 
the  power  of  the  performer,  once  attained, 
may  be  afterwards  misdirected,  in  slavery 
to  popular  passion  or  childishness,  and  spend 
itself,  at  its  sweetest,  in  idle  melodies,  cold 
and  ephemeral  (like  Michael  Angelo's  snow 
statue  in  the  other  art),  or  else  in  vicious 
difficulty  and  miserable  noise — crackling  of 
thorns  under  the  pot  of  public  sensuality — 
still,  the  attainment  of  this  power,  and  the 
maintenance  of  it,  involve  always  in  the 
executant  some  virtue  or  courage  of  high 
kind  ; the  understanding  of  which,  and  of 
the  difference  between  the  discipline  which 
develops  it^nd  the  disorderly  efforts  of  the 
amateur,  it  will  be  one  of  our  first  businesses 
to  estimate  rightly.  And  though  not  indeed 
by  degree  to  degroie,  yet  in  essential  relation 
(as  of  winds  to  waves,  the  one  being  always 
the  true  cause  of  the  other,  though  they  are 
not  necessarily  of  equal  force  at  the*  same 
time),  we  shall  find  vice  in  its  varieties,  with 
art-failure, — and  virtue  in  its  varieties,  with 


XLhc  (Slueen  of  tbe 


207 


art-success, — fall  and  rise  together ; the 
peasant-girl's  song  at  her  spinning-wheel, 
the  peasant  laborer's  ''  to  the  oaks  and  rills,” 
— domestic  music,  feebly  yet  sensitively 
skilful, — music  for  the  multitude,  of  benefi- 
cent or  of  traitorous  power,— dance-melodies, 
pure  and  orderly,  or  foul  and  frantic, — march- 
music,  blatant  in  mere  fever  of  animal  pug- 
nacity, or  majestic  with  force  of  national 
duty  and  memory, — song-music,  reckless, 
sensual,  sickly,  slovenly,  forgetful  even  of 
the  foolish  words  it  effaces  with  foolish  noise, 
— or  thoughtful,  sacred,  healthful,  artful, 
forever  sanctifying  noble  thought  with  sep- 
arately distinguished  loveliness  of  belong- 
ing sound, — all  these  families  and  gradations 
of  good  or  evil,  however  mingled,  follow, 
in  so  far  as  they  are  good,  one  constant  law 
of  virtue  (or  life-strength,”  which  is  the 
literal  meaning  of  the  word,  and  its  intended 
one,  in  wise  men's  mouths),  and  in  so  far 
as  they  are  evil,  are  evil  by  outlawry  and 
unvirtue,  or  death-weakness.  Then,  passing 
wholly  beyond  the  domain  of  death,  we  may 
still  imagine  the  ascendant  nobleness  of  the 
art,  through  all  the  concordant  life  of  incor- 
rupt creatures,  and  a continually  deeper 


2o8  ^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bin 

harmony  of  puissant  words  and  murmurs 
made  to  bless/'  until  we  reach 

“ The  undisturbed  song  of  pure  consent, 

Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-colored  throne.” 

142.  And  SO  far  as  the  sister  arts  can  be 
conceived  to  have  place  or  office,  their 
virtues  are  subject  to  a law  absolutely  the 
same  as  that  of  music,  only  extending  its 
anthority  into  more  various  conditions,  ow- 
ing to  the  introduction  of  a distinctly  repre- 
sentative and  historical  power,  which  acts 
under  logical  as  well  as  mathematical 
restrictions,  and  is  capable  of  endlessly 
changeful  fault,  fallacy,  and  defeat,  as  well 
as  of  endlessly  manifold  victory. 

143.  Next  to  Modesty,  and  her  delight  in 
measures,  let  us  reflect  a little  on  the  char- 
acter^ of  her  adversary,  the  Goddess  of 
Liberty,  and  her  delight  in  absence  of 
measures,  or  in  false  ones.  It  is  true  that 
there  are  liberties  and  liberties.  Yonder 
torrent,  crystal-clear,  and  arrow-swift,  with 
its  spray  leaping  into  the  air  like  white  troops 
of  fawns,  is  free  enough.  Lost,  presently, 
amidst  bankless,  boundless  marsh — soaking 
in  slow  shallowness,  as  it  will,  hither  and 


XLbc  (Slueen  ot  tbe  Bit.  209 

thither,  listless  among  the  poisonous  reeds 
and  unresisting  slime — it  is  free  also.  We 
may  choose  which  liberty  we  like, — the 
restraint  of  voiceful  rock,  or  the  dumb  and 
edgeless  shore  of  darkened  sand.  Of  that 
evil  liberty  which  men  are  now  glorifying, 
and  proclaiming  as  essence  of  gospel  to  all 
the  earth,  and  will  presently,  I suppose, 
proclaim  also  to  the  stars,  with  invitation  to 
them  (9^/ of  their  courses, — and  of  its  oppo- 
site continence,  which  is  the  clasp  and  XP^(^^v 
irepbvTj  of  Aglaia's  cestus,  we  must  try  to  find 
out  something  true.  For  no  quality  of  Art 
has  been  more  powerful  in  its  infiuence  on 
public  mind ; none  is  more  frequently  the 
subject  of  popular  praise,  or  the  end  of 
vulgar  effort,  than  what  we  call  Freedom.” 
It  is  necessary  to  determine  the  justice  or 
injustice  of  this  popular  praise. 

144.  I said,  a little  while  ago,  that  the 
practical  teaching  of  the  masters  of  Art  was 
summed  by  the  O of  Giotto.  “You  mc.y 
judge  my  masterhood  of  craft,”  Giotto  tells 
us,  “ by  seeing  that  I can  draw  a circle 
unerringly.”  And  we  may  saiely  believe 
him, understanding  him  to  mean  that,  though 
more  may  be  necessary  to  an  artist  than 
14 


210  xrbe  (Slueen  ot  tbe  Btr* 

such  a power,  at  least  this  power  is  neces- 
sary. The  qualities  of  hand  and  eye  needful 
to  do  this  are  the  first  conditions  of  artistic 
craft. 

145.  Try  to  draw  a circle  yourself  with 
the  free  ’’  hand,  and  with  a single  line. 
You  cannot  do  it  if  your  hand  trembleS; 
nor  if  it  hesitates,  nor  if  it  is  unmanage* 
able,  nor  if  it  is  in  the  common  sense  of 
the  word  ‘^free.”  So  far  from  being  free, 
it  must  be  under  a control  as  absolute  and 
accurate  as  if  it  were  fastened  to  an  inflex* 
ible  bar  of  steel.  And  yet  it  must  move, 
under  this  necessary  control,  with  perfect, 
untormented  serenity  of  ease. 

146.  That  is  the  condition  of  all  good 
work  whatsoever.  All  freedom  is  error. 
Every  line  you  lay  down  is  either  right  or 
wrong;  it  may  be  timidly  and  awkwardly 
wrong,  or  fearlessly  and  impudently  wrong. 
The  aspect  of  the  impudent;^  wrongness  is 
pleasurable  to  vulgar  persons,  and  is  what 
they  commonly  call  ^‘free”  execution;  the 
timid,  tottering,  hesitating  wrongness  is 
rarely  so  attractive;  yet, ^ometimes,  if  ac- 
companied with  good  qualities,  and  right 
aims  in  other  directions,  it  becomes  in  a 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Htr*  21 1 

manner  charming,  like  the  inarticulateness 
of  a child  ; but,  whatever  the  charm  or  man- 
ner of  the  error,  there  is  but  one  question 
ultimately  to  be  asked  respecting  every  line 
you  draw,  Is  it  right  or  wrong  ? If  right  it 
most  assuredly  is  not  a ‘‘free”  line,  but  an 
intensely  continent,  restrained,  and  consid- 
ered line  ; and  the  action  of  the  hand  in 
laying  it  is  just  as  decisive,  and  just  as 
“free,”  as  the  hand  of  a first-rate  surgeon 
in  a critical  incision.  A great  operator  told 
me  that  his  hand  could  check  itself  within 
about  the  two-hundredth  of  an  inch,  in  pene- 
trating a membrane ; and  this,  of  course, 
without  the  help  of  sight,  by  sensation  only. 
With  help  of  sight,  and  in  action  on  a sub- 
stance which  does  not  quiver  nor  yield,  a 
fine  artist’s  line  is  measurable  in.  its  proposed 
direction  to  considerably  less  than  the  thou- 
sandth of  an  inch. 

A wide  freedom,  truly  I 

147.  The  conditions  of  popular  art  which 
most  foster  the  common  ideas  about  freedom, 
are  merely  results  of  irregularly  energetic 
effort  by  men  imperfectly  educated ; these 
conditions  being  variously  mingled  with 
cruder  mannerisms  resulting  from  timidity, 


212 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


or  actual  imperfection  of  body.  Northern 
hands  and  eyes  are,  of  course,  never  so  sub- 
tle as  Southern  ; and  in  very  cold  countries, 
artistic  execution-  is  palsied.  The  effort  to 
break  through  this  timidity,  or  to  refine  the 
bluntness,  m^^y  lead  to  a licentious  impetu- 
osity, or  an  ostentatious  minuteness.  Every 
man  s manner  has  this  kind  of  relation  to 
some  defect  in  his  physical  powers  or  modes 
of  thought ; so  that  in  the  greatest  work 
there  is  no  manner  visible.  It  is  at  first 
uninteresting  from  its  quietness  ; the  maj- 
esty of  restrained  power  only  dawns  gradu- 
ally upon  us,  as  we  walk  towards  its 
horizon. 

There  is,  indeed,  often  great  delightfulness 
in  the  innocent  manners  of  artists  who  have 
real  power  and  honesty,  and  draw  in  this 
way  or  that,  as  best  they  can,  under  such 
and  such  untoward  circumstances  of  life. 
But  the  greater  part  of  the  looseness,  flimsi- 
ness, or  audacity  of  modern  work  is  the  ex- 
pression of  an  inner  spirit  of  license  in  mind 
and  heart,  connected,  as  I said,  with  the 
peculiar  folly  of  this  age,  its  hope  of,  and 
trust  in,  ‘liberty,''  of  which  we  must 
reason  a little  in  more  general  terms. 


be  Queen  of  tbe  Bit. 


213 


148.  I believe  we  can  nowhere  find  a 
better  type  of  a perfectly  free  creature  than 
in  the  common  house-fly.  Nor  free  only, 
but  brave;  and  irreverent  to  a degree  which 
I think  no  human  republican  could  by  any 
philosophy  exalt  himself  to.  There  is  no 
courtesy  in  him  ; he  does  not  care  whether 
it  is  king  or  clown  whom  he  teases  ; and  in 
every  step  of  his  swift  mechanical  march,  and 
in  every  pause  of  his  resolute  observation, 
there  is  one  and  the  same  expression  of  per- 
fect egotism,  perfect  independence  and  self- 
confidence,  and  conviction  of  the  world’s 
having  been  made  for  flies.  Strike  at  him 
with  your  hand,  and  to  him,  the  mechanical 
fact  and  external  aspect  of  the  matter  is, 
what  to  you  it  would  be  if  an  acre  of  red 
clay,  ten  feet  thick,  tore  itself  up  from  the 
ground  in  one  massive  field,  hovered  over 
you  in  the  air  for  a second,  and  came  crash- 
ing down  with  an  aim.  That  is  the  exter- 
nal aspect  of  it ; the  inner  aspect,  to  his 
fly’s  mind,  is  of  a quite  natural  and  unim- 
portant occurrence — one  of  the  momentary 
conditions  of  his  active  life.  He  steps  out 
of  the  way  of  your  hand,  and  alights  on  the 
back  of  it  You  cannot  terrify  him,  nor 


214 


be  (aueen  of  tbe  Bin 


g-overn  him,  nor  persuade  him,  nor  convince 
him.  He  has  his  own  positive  opinion  on 
all  matters  ; not  an  unwise  one,  usually, 
for  his  own  ends ; and  will  ask  no  advice  of 
yours.  He  has  no  work  to  do — no  tyran- 
nical instinct  to  obey.  The  earthworm  has 
his  digging  ; the  bee  her  gathering  and  build- 
ing ; the  spider  her  cunning  network ; the 
ant  her  treasury  and  accounts.  All  these 
are  comparatively  slaves,  or  people  of  vul- 
gar business.  But  your  fly,  free  in  the  air, 
free  in  the  chamber — a black  incarnation  of 
caprice,  wandering,  investigating,  flitting, 
flirting,  feasting  at  his  will,  with  rich  variety 
of  choice  in  feast,  from  the  heaped  sweets  in 
the  grocer's  window  to  those  of  the  butcher's 
back-yard,  and  from  the  galled  place  on 
your  cab-horse's  back,  to  the  brown  spot 
in  the  road,  from  which,  as  the  hoof  disturbs 
him,  he  rises  with  angry  republican  buzz — 
what  freedom  is  like  his  ? 

149.  For  captivity,  again,  perhaps  your 
poor  watch-dog  is  as  sorrowful  a type  as  you 
will  easily  find.  Mine  certainly  is.  The 
day  is  lovely,  but  I must  write  this,  and 
cannot  go  out  with  him.  He  is  chained  in 
the  yard  because  I do  not  like  dogs  in  rooms, 


XLbc  (Slucen  of  tbe  Bir. 


215 


and  the  gardener  does  not  like  dogs  in  gar- 
dens. He  has  no  books, — nothing  but  his 
own  weary  thoughts  for  company,  and  a 
group  of  those  free  flies,  whom  he  snaps  at, 
with  sullen  ill  success.  Such  dim  hope  as 
he  may  have  that  I may  take  him  out  with 
me,  will  be,  hour  by  hour,  wearily  disap- 
pointed ; or,  worse,  darkened  at  once  into  a 
leaden  despair  by  an  authoritative  ‘^No  '' — 
too  well  understood.  His  fidelity  only  seals 
his  fate  ; if  he  would  not  watch  for  me,  he 
would  be  sent  away,  and  go  hunting  with 
some  happier  master : but  he  watches,  and 
is  wise,  and  faithful,  and  miserable  ; and 
his  high  animal  intellect  only  gives  him 
the  wistful  powers  of  wonder,  and  sorrow, 
and  desire,  and  affection,  which  embitter  his 
captivity.  Yet  of  the  two,  would  we  rather 
be  watch-dog  or  fly  ? 

150.  Indeed,  the  first  point  we  have  all  to 
determine  is  not  how  free  we  are,  but  what 
kind  of  creatures  we  are.  It  is  of  small  im- 
portance to  any  of  us  whether  we  get  liberty  ; 
but  of  the  greatest  that  we  deserve  it. 
Whether  we  can  win  it,  fate  must  determine  ; 
but  that  we  will  be  worthy  of  it  we  may  our- 
selves determine  ; and  the  sorrowfullest  fate 


2i6 


®be  (aueen  ot  tbe  Bit* 


of  all  that  we  can  suffer  is  to  have  it  withoui 
deserving  it. 

1 5 1.  I have  hardly  patience  to  hold  my 
pen  and  go  on  writing,  as  I remember  (I 
would  that  it  were  possible  for  a few  con- 
secutive instants  to  forget)  the  infinite  fol- 
lies of  modern  thought  in  this  matter,  cen- 
tred in  the  notion  that  liberty  is  good  for  a 
man,  irrespectively  of  the  use  he  is  likely  to 
make  of  it.  Folly  unfathomable  ! unspeak- 
able ! unendurable  to  look  in  the  full  face 
of,  as  the  laugh  of  a cretin.  You  will  send 
your  child,  will  you,  into  a room  where  the 
table  is  loaded  with  sweet  wine  and  fruit — 
some  poisoned,  some  not } — you  will  say  to 
him,  ‘'Choose  freely,  my  little  child  ! It  is 
so  good  for  you  to  have  freedom  of  choice  ; 
it  forms  your  character — your  individuality  ! 
If  you  take  the  wrong  cup  or  the  wrong  berry, 
you  will  die  before  the  day  is  over,  but  you 
will  have  acquired  the  dignity  of  a Free 
child .? 

152.  You  think  that  puts  the  case  too 
sharply  ? I tell  you,  lover  of  liberty,  there  is 
no  choice  offered  to  you,  but  it  is  similarly 
between  life  and  death.  There  is  no  act, 
nor  option  of  act,  possible,  but  the  wrong 


^be  (auecn  ot  tbe  :Hir*  217 

deed  or  option  has  poison  in  it  which  will 
stay  in  your  veins  thereafter  forever.  Never 
more  to*-hll  eternity  can  you  be  as  you  might 
have  been  had  you  not  done  that — chosen 
that.  You  have  formed  your  character/’ 
forsooth ! No  ; if  you  have  chosen  ill,  you 
have  De-formed  it,  and  that  for  ever  ! In 
some  choices  it  had  been  better  for  you  that 
a red-hot  iron  bar  struck  you  aside,  scarred 
and  helpless,  than  that  you  had  so  chosen. 
^‘You  will  know  better  next  time!”  No. 
Next  time  will  never  come.  Next  time  the 
choice  will  be  in  quite  another  aspect — be- 
tween quite  different  things, — you,  weaker 
than  you  were  by  the  evil  into  which  you 
have  fallen ; it,  more  doubtful  than  it  was, 
by  the  increased  dimness  of  your  sight.  No 
one  ever  gets  wiser  by  doing  wrong,  nor 
stronger.  You  will  get  wiser  and  stronger 
only  by  doing  right,  whether  forced  or  not  ; 
the  prime,  the  one  need  is  to  do  that,  under 
whatever  compulsion,  until  you  can  do  it 
without  compulsion.  And  then  you  are  a 
Man. 

153.  ''What!”  a wayward  youth  might 
perhaps  answer,  incredulously,  '^no  one 
ever  gets  wiser  by  doing  wrong  ? Shall  I 


2i8 


ttbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


not  know  the  world  best  by  trying  the  wrong 
of  it,  and  repenting  ? Have  I not,  even  as  it 
is,  learned  much  by  many  of  my  errors  ? ” In- 
deed, the  effort  by  which  partially  you  recov- 
ered yourself  was  precious  ; that  part  of  your 
thought  by  which  you  discerned  the  error 
was  precious.  What  wisdom  and  strength 
you  kept,  and  rightly  used,  are  rewarded ; 
and  in  the  pain  and  the  repentance,  and  in  the 
acquaintance  with  the  aspects  of  folly  and 
sin,  you  have  learned  something)  how  much 
less  than  you  would  have  learned  in  right 
paths  can  never  be  told,  but  that  it  is  less  is 
certain.  Your  liberty  of  choice  has  simply 
destroyed  for  you  so  much  life  and  strength 
never  regainable.  It  is  true,  you  now  know 
the  habits  of  swine,  and  the  taste  of  husks ; do 
you  think  your  father  could  not  have  taught 
you  to  know  better  habits  and  pleasanter 
tastes,  if  you  had  stayed  in  his  house  ; and 
that  the  knowledge  you  have  lost  would 
not  have  been  more,  as  well  as  sweeter, 
than  that  you  have  gained?  But  ‘Ht  so 
forms  my  individuality  to  be  free  1 Your 
individuality  was  given  you  by  God,  and  in 
your  race,  and  if  you  have  any  to  speak  of, 
you  will  want  no  liberty.  You  will  want  a 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Blr*  219 

den  to  work  in,  and  peace,  and  light — no 
«nore, — in  absolute  need  ; if  more,  in  any- 
wise, it  will  still  not  be  liberty,  but  direction^ 
instruction,  reproof,  and  sympathy.  But  if 
you  have  no  individuality,  if  there  is  no  true 
character  nor  true  desire  in  you,  then  you 
will  indeed  want  to  be  free.  You  will  begin 
early,  and,  as  a boy,  desire  to  be  a man  ; 
and,  as  a man,  think  yourself  as  good  as 
every  other.  You  will  choose  freely  to  eat, 
freely  to  drink,  freely  to  stagger  and  fall, 
freely,  at  last,  to  curse  yourself  and  die. 
Death  is  the  only  real  freedom  possible  to  us  ; 
and  that  is  consummate  freedom,  permission 
for  every  particle  in  the  rotting  body  to 
leave  its  neighbor  particle,  and  shift  for  itself. 
You  call  it  corruption in  the  flesh;  but 
before  it  comes  to  that,  all  liberty  is  an  equal 
corruption  in  mind.  You  ask  for  freedom  of 
thought ; but  if  you  have  not  sufficient 
grounds  for  thought,  you  have  no  busi- 
ness to  think ; and  if  you  have  sufficient 
grounds,  you  have  no  business  to  think 
wrong.  Only  one  thought  is  possible  to  you 
if  you  are  wise — your  liberty  is  geometrically 
proportionate  to  your  folly. 

154.  '‘But  all  this  glory  and  activity  of 


220  Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe 

our  age  ; what  are  they  owing  to,  but  to  our 
freedom  of  thought  ? ''  In  a measure,  they 
are  owing — what  good  is  in  them — to  the 
discovery  of  many  hes,  and  the  escape  from 
the  power  of  evil.  Not  to  liberty,  but  to  the 
deliverance  from  evil  or  cruel  masters. 
Brave  men  have  dared  to  examine  lies  which 
had  long  been  taught,  not  because  they  were 
thinkers,  but  because  they  were  such 
stern  and  close  thinkers  that  the  lie  could  no 
longer  escape  them.  Of  course  the  restric- 
tion of  thought,  or  of  its  expression,  by  per- 
secution, is  merely  a form  of  violence,  justi- 
fiable or  not,  as  other  violence  is,  according 
to  the  character  of  the  persons  against  whom 
it  is  exercised,  and  the  divine  and  eternal 
laws  which  it  vindicates  or  violates.  We 
must  not  burn  a man  alive  for  saying  that 
the  Athanasian  creed  is  ungrammatical,  nor 
stop  a bishop's  salary  because  we  are  getting 
the  worst  of  an  argument  with  him  ; neither 
must  we  let  drunken  men  howl  in  the  public 
streets  at  night.  There  is  much  that  is  true 
in  the  part  of  Mr.  Mill's  essay  on  Liberty 
which  treats  , of  freedom  of  thought ; some 
important  truths  are  there  beautifully  ex- 
pressed, but  xnwjf  quite  vital,  are  omittQd ; 


ZTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Uix, 


221 


and  the  balance,  therefore,  is  wrongly  struck. 
The  liberty  of  expression,  with  a great 
nation,  would  become  like  that  in  a well- 
educated  company,  in  which  there  is  indeed 
freedom  of  speech,  but  not  of  clamor ; or 
like  that  in  an  orderly  senate,  in  which  men 
who  deserve  to  be  heard,  are  heard  in  due 
time,  and  under  determined  restrictions. 
The  degree  of  liberty  you  can  rightly  grant 
to  a number  of  men  is  in  the  inverse  ratio 
of  their  desire  for  it  ; and  a general  hush,  or 
call  to  order,  would  be  often  very  desirable 
in  this  England  of  ours.  For  the  rest,  of  any 
any  good  or  evil  extent,  it  is  impossible  to 
say  what  measure  is  owing  to  restraint,  and 
what  to  license  where  the  right  is  balanced 
between  them.  I was  not  a little  provoked 
one  day,  a summer  or  two  since,  in  Scot- 
land, because  the  Duke  of  Athol  hindered 
me  from  examining  the  gneiss  and  slate 
junctions  in  Glen  Tilt,  at  the  hour  conven- 
ient to  me  ; but  I saw  them  at  last,  and  in 
quietness ; and  to  the  very  restriction  that 
annoyed  me,  owed,  probably,  the  fact  of 
their  being  in  existence,  instead  of  being 
blasted  away  by  a mob-company  ; while  the 
” paths  and  inlets  of  Loch  Katrine  and 


222 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Btr* 


the  Lake  of  Geneva  are  forever  trampled 
down  and  destroyed,  not  by  one  duke, 
but  by  tens  of  thousands  of  ignorant  ty- 
rants. 

155.  So,  a Dean  and  Chapter  may,  per- 
haps, unjustifiably  charge  me  twopence  for 
seeing  a cathedral ; but  your  free  mob  pulls 
spire  and  all  down  about  my  ears,  and  I 
can  see  it  no  more  forever.  And  even  if  I 
cannot  get  up  to  the  granite  junctions  in  the 
glen,  the  stream  comes  down  from  them 
pure  to  the  Garry ; but  in  Beddington  Park 
I am  stopped  by  the  newly-erected  fence  of 
a building  speculator ; and  the  bright 
Wandel,  divine  of  waters  as  Castaly,  is 
filled  by  the  free  public  with  old  shoes, 
obscene  crockery,  and  ashes. 

156.  In  fine,  the  arguments  for  liberty 
may  in  general  be  summed  in  a few  very 
simple  forms,  as  follows  : 

Misguiding  is  mischievous  : therefore 
guiding  is. 

If  the  blind  lead  the  blind,  both  fall  into 
the  ditch : therefore,  nobody  should  lead 
anybody. 

Lambs  and  fawns  should  be  left  free  in 
the  fields  ; much  more  bears  and  wolves. 


Zbc  dlueen  of  tbe  Bit. 


223 

If  a man's  gun  and  shot  are  his  own,  he 
may  fire  in  any  direction  he  pleases. 

A fence  across  a road  is  inconvenient ; 
much  more  one  at  the  side  of  it. 

Babes  should  not  be  swaddled  with  their 
hands  bound  down  to  their  sides  : therefore 
they  should  be  thrown  out  to  roll  in  the 
kennels  naked. 

None  of  these  arguments  are  good,  and 
the  practical  issues  of  them  are  worse.  For 
there  are  certain  eternal  laws  for  human 
conduct  which  are  quite  clearly  discernible 
by  human  reason.  So  far  as  these  are 
discovered  and  obeyed,  by  whatever 
machinery  or  authority  the  obedience  is 
procured,  there  follow  life  and  strength.  So 
far  as  they  are  disobeyed,  by  whatever  good 
intention  the  disobedience  is  brought  about, 
there  follow  ruin  and  sorrow.  And  the 
first  duty  of  every  man  in  the  world  is  to 
find  his  true  master,  and,  for  his  own  good, 
submit  to  him  ; and  to  find  his  true  inferior, 
and,  for  that  inferior’s  good,  conquer  him. 
The  punishment  is  sure,  if  we  either  refuse 
the  reverence,  or  are  too  cowardly  and  indo- 
lent to  enforce  the  compulsion.  A base 
nation  crucifies  or  poisons  its  wise  men, 


224  ^be  (aueen  of  tbe  Bit* 

and  lets  its  fools  rave  and  rot  in  its  streets. 
A wise  nation  obeys  the  one,  restrains  the 
other,  and  cherishes  all. 

157.  The  best  examples  of  the  results  of 
wise  normal  discipline  in  Art  will  be  found 
in  whatever  evidence  remains  respecting 
the  lives  of  great  Italian  painters,  though, 
unhappily,  in  eras  of  progress,  but  just  in 
proportion  to  the  admirableness  and  effi- 
ciency of  the  life,  will  be  usually  the  scanti- 
ness of  its  history.  The  individualities  and 
liberties  which  are  causes  of  destruction 
may  be  recorded  ; but  the  loyal  conditions 
of  daily  breath  are  never  told.  Because 
Leonardo  made  models  of  machines,  dug 
canals,  built  fortifications,  and  dissipated 
half  his  art-power  in  capricious  ingenuities, 
we  have  many  anecdotes  of  him  ; — but  no 
picture  of  importance  on  canvas,  and  only  a 
few  withered  stains  of  one  upon  a wall.  But 
because  his  pupil,  or  reputed  pupil;  Luini, 
labored  in  constant  and  successful  simplicity, 
we  have  no  anecdotes  of  him; — only  hundreds 
of  noble  works.  Luini  is,  perhaps,  the  best 
central  type  of  the  highly-trained  Italian 
painter.  He  is  the  only  man  who  entirely 
united  the  religious  temper  which  was  the 


XTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  225 

spirit-life  of  art,  with  the  physical  power  which 
was  its  bodily  life.  He  joins  the  purity  and 
passion  of  Angelico  to  the  strength  of  Vero- 
nese : the  two  elements,  poised  in  perfect 
balance,  are  so  calmed  and  restrained,  each 
by  the  other,  that  most  of  us  lose  the  sense  of 
both.  The  artist  does  not  see  the  strength, 
by  reason  of  the  chastened  spirit  in  which 
it  is  used  : and  the  religious  visionary  does 
not  recognize  the  passion,  by  reason  of  the 
frank  human  truth  with  which  it  is  rendered. 
He  is  a man  ten  times  greater  than  Leo- 
nardo ; — a mighty  colorist,  while  Leonardo 
was  only  a fine  draughtsman  in  black, 
staining  the  chiaroscuro  drawing,  like  a 
colored  print : he  perceived  and  rendered  the 
delicatest  types  of  human  beauty  that  have 
been  painted  since  the  days  of  the  Greeks, 
while  Leonardo  depraved  his  finer  instincts 
by  caricature,  and  remained  to  the  end  of  his 
days  the  slave  of  an  archaic  smile  : and 
he  is  a designer  as  frank,  instinctive,  and 
exhaustless  as  Tintoret,  while  Leonardo's 
design  is  only  an  agony  of  science,  admired 
chiefly  because  it  is  painful,  and  capable  of 
analysis  in  its  best  accomplishment.  Luini 
has  left  nothing  behind  him  that  is  not 

15 


^26  trbe  (Slueen  oi  the  Mu 

lovely  ; but  of  his  life  I believe  hardly  any- 
thing is  known  beyond  remnants  of  tradition 
which  murmur  about  Lugano  and  Saronno, 
and  which  remain  ungleaned.  This  only  is 
certain,  that  he  was  born  in  the  loveliest 
district  -of  North  Italy,  where  hills,  and 
streams,  and  air  meet  in  softest  harmonies. 
Child  of  the  Alps,  and  of  their  divinest 
lake,  he  is  taught,  without  doubt  or  dis- 
may, a lofty  religious  creed,  and  a suffi- 
cient law  of  life,  and  of  its  mechanical 
arts.  Whether  lessoned  by  Leonardo  him- 
self, or  merely  one  of  many  disciplined 
in  the  system  of  the  Milanese  school,  he 
learns  unerringly  to  draw,  unerringly 
and  --enduringly  to  paint.  His  tasks  are 
set  him  without  question  day  by  day,  by 
men  who  are  justly  satisfied  v-with  his 
work,  and  who  accept  it  without  any 
harmful  praise,  or  senseless  blame.  Place, 
scale,  and  subject  are  determined  for  him  on 
the  cloister  wall  or  the  church  dome  ; as  he 
is  required,  and  for  sufficient  daily  bread, 
and  little  more,  he  paints  what  he  has  been 
taught  to  design  wisely,  and  has  passion  to 
realize  gloriously  : every  touch  he  lays  is 
eternal,  every  thought  he  conceives  is  beauti- 


tTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bfr* 


227 


ful  and  pure  : his  hand  moves  always  in 
radiance  of  blessing  ; from  day  to  day  his 
life  enlarges  in  power  and  peace ; it  passes 
away  cloudlessly,  the  starry  twilight  remain- 
ing arched  far  against  the  night. 

158.  Oppose  to  such  a life  as  this  that  of  a 
great  painter  amidst  the  elements  of  modern 
English  liberty.  Take  the  life  of  Turner,  in 
whom  the  artistic  energy  and  inherent  love 
of  beauty  were  at  least  as  strong  as  in  Luini  : 
but,  amidst  the  disorder  and  ghastliness  of 
the  lower  streets  of  London,  his  instincts  in 
early  infancy  were  warped  into  toleration  of 
evil,  or  even  into  delight  in  it.  He  gathers 
what  he  can  of  instruction  by  questioning 
and  prying  among  half-informed  masters  ; 
spells  out  some  knowledge  of  classical  fable  ; 
educates  himself,  by  an  admirable  force,  to 
the  production  of  wildly  majestic  or  patheti- 
cally tender  and  pure  pictures,  by  which  he 
cannot  live.  There  is  no  one  to  judge  them, 
or  to  command  him  : only  some  of  the  Eng- 
lish upper  classes  hire  him  to  paint  their 
houses  and  parks,  and  destroy  the  drawings 
afterwards  by  the  most  wanton  neglect. 
Tired  of  laboring  carefully,  without  either 
reward  or  praise,  he  dashes  out  into  various 


228 


XTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Tilv. 


experimental  and  popular  works — makes 
himself  the  servant  of  the  lower  public,  and 
is  dragged  hither  and  thither  at  their  will  ; 
while  yet,  helpless  and  guideless,  he  indulges 
his  idiosyncrasies  till  they  change  into  insan- 
ities : the  strength  of  his  soul  increasing  its 
sufferings,  and  giving  force  to  its  errors  ; all 
the  purpose  of  life  degenerating  into  instinct ; 
and  the  web  of  his  work  wrought,  at  last,  of 
beauties  too  subtle  to  be  understood,  his 
liberty,  with  vices  too  singular  to  be  for- 
given— all  useless,  because  magnificent 
idiosyncrasy  had  become  solitude,  or  con- 
tention, in  the  midst  of  a reckless  populace, 
instead  of  submitting  itself  in  loyal  harmony 
to  the  Art-laws  of  an  understanding  nation. 
And  the  life  passed  away  in  darkness  ; and 
its  final  work,  in  all  the  best  beauty  of  it,  has 
already  perished,  only  enough  remaining  to 
teach  us  what  we  have  lost. 

159.  These  are  the  opposite  effects  oi 
Law  and  of  Liberty  on  men  of  the  highest 
powers.  In  the  case  of  inferiors  the  contrast 
is  still  more  fatal  : under  strict  law,  they 
become  the  subordinate  workers  in  great 
schools,  healthily  aiding,  echoing,  or  sup- 
plying, with  multitudinous  force  of  hand. 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe 


229 

the  mind  of  the  leading  masters  : they  are 
the  nameless  carvers  of  great  architecture — 
Stainers  of  glass — hammerers  of  iron — help- 
ful scholars,  whose  work  ranks  round,  if  not 
with,  their  master's,  and  never  disgraces  it 
But  the  inferiors  under  a system  of  license 
for  the  most  part  perish  in  miserable  effort ; * 

* As  I correct  this  sheet  for  press,  my  “ Pall  Mall 
Gazette  ” of  last  Saturday,  April  17,  is  lying  on  the  table 
by  me.  I print  a few  lines  out  of  it : 

“ An  Artist’s  Death. — A sad  story  was  told  at  an 
inquest  held  in  St.  Pancras  last  night  by  Dr.  Lankester 
on  the  body  of  ...  , aged  fifty-nine,  a French  artist 
who  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  at  his  rooms  in  . . . 
Street.  M.  . . . , also  an  artist,  said  he  had  known 
the  deceased  for  fifteen  years.  He  once  held  a high 
position,  and  being  anxious  to  make  a name  in  the 
world,  he  five  years  ago  commenced  a large  picture, 
which  he  hoped,  when  completed,  to  have  in  the  gallery 
at  Versailles ; and  with  that  view  he  sent  a photograph 
of  it  to  the  French  Emperor.  He  also  had  an  idea  of 
sending  it  to  the  English  Royal  Academy.  He  labored 
on  this  picture,  neglecting  other  work  which  would  have 
paid  him  well,  and  gradually  sank  lower  and  lower  into 
poverty.  His  friends  assisted  him,  but  being  absorbed 
in  his  great  work,  he  did  not  heed,  their  advice,  and 
they  left  him.  He  was,  however,  assisted  by  the  French 
Ambassador,  and  last  Saturday,  he  (the  witness)  saw 
deceased,  who  was  much  depressed  in  spirits,  as  he  ex- 
pected the  brokers  to  be  put  in  possession  for  rent. 


230 


Cbe  iStueen  of  tbe  Bit, 


a few  struggle  into  pernicious  eminence — ■ 
harmful  alike  to  themselves  and  to  all  who 
admire  them ; many  die  of  starvation  ; 
many  insane,  either  in  weakness  of  insolent 
egotism,  like  Haydon,  or  in  a conscientious 
agony  of  beautiful  purpose  and  warped 
power,  like  Blake.  There  is  no  probability 
of  the  persistence  of  a licentious  school  in 
any  good  accidentally  discovered  by  them  ; 
there  is  an  approximate  certainty  of  their 
gathering,  with  acclaim,  round  any  shadow 
of  evil,  and  following  it  to  whatever  quarter 
of  destruction  it  may  lead. 

i6o.  Thus  far  the  notes  on  Freedom. 
Now,  lastly,  here  is  some  talk  which  I tried 

He  said  his  troubles  were  so  great  that  he  feared  his 
brain  would  give  way.  The  witness  gave  him  a shilling 
for  which  he  appeared  very  thankful.  On  Monday  the 
witness  called  upqn  him,  but  received  no  answer  to  his 
knock.  He  went  again  on  Tuesday,  and  entered  the 
deceased’s  bedroom  and  found  him  dead.  Dr.  George 
Ross  said  that  when  called  in  to  the  deceased  he  had 
been  dead  at  least  two  days.  The  room  was  in  a filthy, 
dirty  condition,  and  the  picture  referred  to — certainly  a 
very  fine  one — was  in  that  room.  The  post-mortem 
examination  showed  that  the  cause  of  death  was  fatty 
degeneration  of  the  heart,  the  latter  probably  having 
ceased  its  action  through  the  mental  excitement  of  the 
deceased.’* 


^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Blr* 


231 


at  the  time  to  make  intelligible  ; and  with 
which  I close  this  volume,  because  it  will 
serve  sufficiently  to  express  the  practical 
relation  in  which  I think  the  art  and  imag- 
ination of  the  Greeks  stand  to  our  own  ; and 
will  show  the  reader  that  my  view  of  that 
relation  is  unchanged,  from  the  first  day  on 
which  I began  to  write,  until  now. 


THE  HERCULES  OF  CAMARINA. 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  STUDENTS  OF  THE  ART  SCHOOL 
OF  SOUTH  LAMBERT,  MARCH  1 5,  1 869. 

16 1.  Among  the  photographs  of  Greek 
coins  which  present  so  many  admirable 
subjects  for  your  study,  I must  speak  for  the 
present  of  one  only  : the  Hercules  of  Cama- 
rina.  You  have,  represented  by  a Greek 
workman,  in  that  coin,  the  face  of  a man 
and  the  skin  of  a lion's  head.  And  the 
man’s  face  is  like  a man’s  face,  but  the  lion’s 
skin  is  not  like  a lion’s  skin. 

162.  Now  there  are  some  people  who  will 
tell  ydu  that  Greek  art  is  fine,  because  it  is 
true ; and  because  it  carves  men’s  faces  as 
like  men’s  as  it  can. 


232 


Zbc  (aueen  of  tbe  Miu 


And  there  are  other  people  who  will  tell 
you  that  Greek  art  is  fine,  because  it  is  not 
true ; and  carves  a lion's  skin  so  as  to  look 
not  at  all  like  a lion’s  skin. 

And  you  fancy  that  one  or  other  of  these 
sets  of  people  must  be  wrong,  and  are  per- 
haps much  puzzled  to  find  out  which  you 
should  believe. 

But  neither  of  them  are  wrong,  and  you 
will  have  eventually  to  believe,  or  rather 
to  understand  and  know,  in  reconciliation, 
the  truths  taught  by  each  ; but  for  the  pres- 
ent, the  teachers  of  the  first  group  are  those 
you  must  follow. 

It  is  they  who  tell  you  the  deepest  and 
usefullest  truth,  which  involves  all  others 
in  time.  Greek  art,  and  all  other  art,  is  fine 
when  it  makes  a man's  face  as  like  a mans 
face  as  it  can.  Hold  to  that.  All  kinds  of 
nonsense  are  talked  to  you,  nowadays, 
ingeniously  and  irrelevantly  about  art. 
Therefore,  for  the  most  part  of  the  day,  shut 
your  ears,  and  keep  your  eyes  open:  and 
understand  primarily,  what  you  may,  I 
fancy,  understand  easily,  that  the  greatest 
masters  of  all  greatest  schools — Phidias, 
DonateUp,  Titian,  Velasquez,  or  Sir  Joshua 


XTbe  (Siueen  of  tbe  Btr* 


233 


Reynolds — all  tried  to  make  human  creatures 
as  like  human  creatures  as  they  could  ; and 
that  anything  less  like  humanity  than  their 
work,  is  not  so  good  as  theirs. 

Get  that  well  driven  into  your  heads  ; and 
don’t  let  it  out  again,  at  your  peril. 

163.  Having  got  it  well  in,  you  may  then 
further  understand,  safely,  that  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  secondary  work  in  pots,  and 
pans,  and  floors,  and  carpets,  and  shawls, 
and  architectural  ornament,  which  ought 
essentially,  to  be  unlike  reality,  and  to  de- 
pend for  its  charm  on  quite  other  qualities 
than  imitative  ones.  But  all  such  art  is 
inferior  and  secondary — much  of  it  more  or 
less  instinctive  and  animal,  and  a civilized 
human  creature  can  only  learn  its  principles 
rightly,  by  knowing  those  of  great  civilized 
art  first — which  is  always  the  represen- 
tation, to  the  utmost  of  its  power,  of  what- 
ever it  has  got  to  show — made  to  look 
as  like  the  thing  as  possible.  Go  into  the 
National  Gallery,  and  look  at  the  foot  of  Cor- 
reggio’s Venus  there.  Correggio  made  it 
as  like  a foot  as  he  could,  and  you  won’t 
easily  find  anything  liken  Now,  you  will 
find  0x1  my  Gr^^k  viasq  aomething  meant  for 


234 


^be  (aueen  of  tbe  Bit* 


a foot,  or  a hand,  which  is  not  at  all  like 
one.  The  Greek  vase  is  a good  thing  in  its 
way,  but  Correggio’s  picture  is  the  best 
work. 

164.  So,  again,  go  into  the  Turner  room 
of  the  National  Gallery,  and  look  at  Turner’s 
drawing  of  ''Ivy  Bridge.”  You  will  find 
the  water  in  it  is  like  real  water,  and  the 
ducks  in  it  are  like  real  ducks.  Then  go 
into  the  British  Museum,  and  look  for  an 
Egyptian  landscape,  and  you  will  find  the 
water  in  that  constituted  of  blue  zigzags, 
not  at  all  like  water ; and  ducks  in  the  mid- 
dle of  it  made  of  red  lines,  looking  not  in 
the  least  as  if  they  could  stand  stuffing  with 
sage  and  onions.  They  are  very  good  in 
their  way,  but  Turner’s  are  better. 

165.  I will  not  pause  to  fence  my  general 
principle  against  what  you  perfectly  well 
know  of  the  due  contradiction, — that  a thing 
may  be  painted  very  like,  yet  painted  ill. 
Rest  content  with  knowing  that  it  must  be 
like,  if  it  is  painted  well  ; and  take  this 
further  general  law  : Imitation  is  like  charity. 
When  it  is  done  for  love  it  is  lovely  ; when 
it  is  done  for  show,  hateful. 

166.  Well,  then,  this  Greek  coin  is  fine, 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bin  235 

first  because  the  face  is  like  a face.  Per- 
haps you  think  there  is  something  par- 
ticularly handsome  in  the  face,  which  you 
can’t  see  in  the  photograph,  or  can’t  at  pres- 
ent appreciate.  But  there  is  nothing  of  the 
kind.  It  is  a very  regular,  quiet,  common- 
place sort  of  face  ; and  any  average  English 
gentleman’s,  of  good  descent,  would  be  far 
handsomer. 

167.  Fix  that  in  your  heads  also,  there- 
fore, that  Greek  faces  are  not  particularly 
beautiful.  Of  the  much  nonsense  against 
which  you  are  to  keep  your  ears  shut,  that 
which  is  talked  to  you  of  the  Greek  ideal  of 
beauty  is  among  the  absolutest.  There  is. 
not  a single  instance  of  a very  beautiful 
head  left  by  the  highest  school  of  Greek  art. 
On  coins,  there  is  even  no  approximately 
beautiful  one.  The  Juno  of  Argos  is  a 
virago  ; the  Athena  of  Athens  grotesque, 
the  Athena  of  Corinth  is  insipid  ; and  of 
Thurium,  sensual.  The  Siren  Ligeia,  and 
fountain  of  Arethusa,  on  the  coins  of  Terina 
and  Syracuse,  are  prettier,  but  totally  with- 
out expression,  and  chiefly  set  off  by  their 
well-curled  hair.  You  might  have  expected 
something  subtle  in  Mercuries  ; but  the 


236  ITbe  (aueen  of  tbe  :air* 

Mercury  of  -^nus  is  a very  stupid-looking 
fellow,  in  a cap  like  a bowl,  with  a knob  on 
the  top  of  it.  The  Bacchus  of  Thasos  is  a 
drayman  with  his  hair  pomatum’d.  The 
Jupiter  of  Syracuse  is,  however,  calm  and 
refined  ; and  the  Apollo  of  Clazomense  would 
have  been  impressive,  if  he  had  not  come 
down  to  us,  much  flattened  by  friction.  But 
on  the  whole,  the  merit  of  Greek  coins  does 
not  primarily  depend  on  beauty  of  features, 
nor  even,  in  the  period  of  highest  art,  that 
of  the  statues.  You  may  take  the  Venus  of 
Melos  as  a standard  of  beauty  of  the  central 
Greek  type.  She  has  tranquil,  regular,  and 
lofty  features ; but  could  not  hold  her  own 
for  a moment  against  the  beauty  of  a simple 
English  girl,  of  pure  race  and  kind  heart. 

168.  And  the  reason  that  Greek  art,  on  the 
whole,  bores  you  (and  you  know  it  does), 
is  that  you  are  always  forced  to  look  in  it 
for  something  that  is  not  there  ; but  which 
may  be  seen  every  day,  in  real  life,  all 
round  you ; and  which  you  are  naturally 
disposed  to  delight  in,  and  ought  to  delight 
in.  For  the  Greek  race  was  not  at  all  one 
of  exalted  beauty,  but  only  of  general  and 
healthy  completeness  of  form.  They  were 


XLf)c  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bfr* 


237 


only,  and  could  be  only,  beautiful  in  body 
to  the  degree  that  they  were  beautiful  in  soul 
(for  you  will  find,  when  you  read  deeply 
into  the  matter,  that  the  body  is  only  the 
soul  made  visible).  And  the  Greeks  were 
indeed  very  good  people,  much  better  people 
than  most  of  us  think,  or  than  many  of  us 
are ; but  there  are  better  people  alive  now 
than  the  best  of  them,  and  lovelier  people 
to  be  seen  now  than  the  loveliest  of  them. 

169.  Then  what  are  the  merits  of  this 
Greek  art,  which  make  it  so  exemplary  for 
you  ? Well,  not  that  it  is  beautiful,  but  that 
it  is  Right.*  All  that  it  desires  to  do,  it 
does,  and  all  that  it  does,  does  well.  You 
will  find,  as  you  advance  in  the  knowledge 
of  art,  that  its  laws  of  self-restraint  are  very 
marvellous  ; that  its  peace  of  heart,  and  con- 
tentment in  doing  a simple  thing,  with  only 
one  or  two  qualities,  restrictedly  desired, 
and  sufficiently  attained,  are  a most  whole- 
some element  of  education  for  you,  as 
opposed  to  the  wild  writhing,  and  wrestling, 
and  longing  for  the  moon,  and  tilting  at 
windmills,  and  agony  of  eyes,  and  torturing 
of  fingers,  and  general  spinning  out  of  one’s 

* Compare  above,  § loi. 


238  tTbe  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bit* 

soul  into  fiddle-strings,  which  constitute 
the  ideal  life  of  a modern  artist. 

Also  observe,  there  is  entire  masterhood 
of  its  business  up  to  the  required  point.  A 
Greek  does  not  reach  after  other  people's 
strength,  nor  outreach  his  own.  He  never 
tries  to  paint  before  he  can  draw  ; he  never 
tries  to  lay  on  flesh  where  there  are  no 
bones  ; and  he  never  expects  to  find  the 
bones  of  anything  in  his  inner  consciousness. 
Those  are  his  first  merits — sincere  and  inno- 
cent purpose,  strong  common-sense  and 
principle,  and  all  the  strength  that  comes  of 
these,  and  all  the  grace  that  follows  on  that 
strength. 

170.  But,  secondly,  Greek  art  is  always 
exemplary  in  disposition  of  masses,  which 
is  a thing  that  in  modern  days  students 
rarely  look  for,  artists  not  enough,  and  the 
public  never.  But,  whatever  else  Greek 
work  may  fail  of,  you  may  be  always  sure 
its  masses  are  well  placed,  and  their  placing 
has  been  the  object  of  the  most  subtle  care. 
Look,  for  instance,  at  the  inscription  in  front 
of  this  Hercules  of  the  name  of  the  town — 
Camarina.  You  can’t  read  it,  even  though 
you  may  know  Greek,  without  some  pains ; 


Zbc  (Slueen  ot  tbc  Bir* 


239 


for  the  sculptor  knew  well  enough  that  it 
mattered  very  little  whether  you  read  it  or 
not,  for  the  Camarina  Hercules  could  tell  his 
own  story  ; but  what  did  above  all  things 
matter  was,  that  no  K or  A or  M should 
come  in  a wrong  place  with  respect  to  the 
outline  of  the  head,  and  divert  the  eye  from 
it,  or  spoil  any  of  its  lines.  So  the  whole 
inscription  is  thrown  into  a sweeping  curve 
of  gradually  diminishing  size,  continuing 
from  the  lion’s  paws,  round  the  neck,  up  to 
the  forehead,  and  answering  a decorative 
purpose  as  completely  as  the  curls  of  the 
mane  opposite.  Of  these,  again,  you  cannot 
change  or  displace  one  without  mischief; 
they  are  almost  as  even  in  reticulation  as  a 
piece  of  basket-work  ; but  each  has  a differ- 
ent form  and  a due  relation  to  the  rest,  and 
if  you  set  to  work  to  draw  that  mane  rightly, 
you  will  find  that,  whatever  time  you  give 
to  it,  you  can’t  get  the  tresses  quite  into 
their  places,  and  that  every  tress  out  of  its 
place  does  an  injury.  If  you  want  to  test 
your  powers  of  accurate  drawing,  you  may 
make  that  lion’s  mane  your  pons  asinorum, 
I have  never  yet  met  with  a student  who 
didn’t  make  an  ass  in  a lion’s  skin  of  himself 
when  he  tried  it 


240 


XLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Btr* 


1 71.  Granted,  however,  that  these  tresses 
may  be  finely  placed,  still  they  are  not  like 
a lion's  mane.  So  we  come  back  to  the 
question, — if  the  face  is  to  be  like  a man's 
face,  why  is  not  the  lion's  mane  to  be  like 
a lion's  mane  Well,  because  it  can't  be 
like  a lion's  mane  without  too  much  trouble, 
— and  inconvenience  after  that,  and  poor 
success,  after  all.  Too  much  trouble,  in 
cutting  the  die  into  fine  fringes  and  jags  ; 
inconvenience  after  that, — because  fringes 
and  jags  would  spoil  the  surface  of  a coin  ; 
poor  success  after  all, — because,  though 
you  can  easily  stamp  cheeks  and  foreheads 
smooth  at  a blow,  you  can't  stamp  project- 
ing tresses  fine  at  a blow,  whatever  pains 
you  take  with  your  die. 

So  your  Greek,  uses  his  common  sense, 
wastes  no  time,  uses  no  skill,  and  says  to 
you,  ^'Here  are  beautifully  set  tresses, 
which  I have  carefully  designed  and  easily 
stamped.  Enjoy  them,  and  if  you  cannot 
understand  that  they  mean  lion's  mane, 
heaven  mend  your  wits.'’ 

172.  See,  then,  you  have  in  this  work 
well-founded  knowledge,  simple  and  right 
aims,  thoroug-h  mastery  of  handicraft,  splen- 


^be  (aueen  of  tbe  Tiiu  24■^ 

did  invention  in  arrangement,  unerring  com- 
mon sense  in  treatment, — merits,  these,  I 
think,  exemplary  enough  to  justify  our  tor- 
menting you  a little  with  Greek  art.  But  it 
has  one  merit  more  than  these,  the  greatest 
of  all.  It  always  means  something  worth 
saying.  Not  merely  worth  saying  for  that 
time  only,  but  for  all  time.  What  do  you 
think  this  helmet  of  lion's  hide  is  always 
given  to  Hercules  for You  can't  suppose 
it  means  only  that  he  once  killed  a lion,  and 
always  carried  its  skin  afterwards  to  show 
that  he  had,  as  Indian  sportsmen  sent  home 
stuffed  rugs,  with  claws  at  the  corners,  and 
a lump  in  the  middle  which  one  tumbles 
over  every  time  one  stirs  the  fire.  What 
was  this  Nemean  Lion,  whose  spoils  were 
evermore  to  cover  Hercules  from  the  cold  ? 
Not  merely  a large  specimen  of  Felis  Leo, 
ranging  the  fields  of  Nemea,  be  sure  of  that. 
This  Nemean  cub  was  one  of  a bad  litter. 
Born  of  Typhon  and  Echidna, — of  the  whirl- 
wind and  the  snake, — Cerberus  his  brother, 
the  Hydra  of  Lerna  his  sister, — it  must  have 
been  difficult  to  get  his  hide  off  him.  He 
had  to  be  found  in  darkness,  too,  and  dealt 
upon  without  weapons,  by  grip  at  the  throat 
|6 


242  ^be  (Slueen  of  tbe  Blr* 

— arrows  and  club  of  no  avail  against  him 
What  does  all  that  mean  ? 

173.  It  means  that  the  Nemean  Lion  is 
the  first  great  adversary  of  life,  whatever 
that  may  be — to  Hercules,  or  to  any  of  us, 
then  or  now.  The  first  monster  w^e  have  to 
strangle,  or  be  destroyed  by,  fighting  in  the 
dark,  and  with  none' to  help  us,  only  Athena 
standing  by  to  encourage  with  her  smile. 
Every  man’s  Nemean  Lion  lies  in  wait  for 
him  somewhere.  The  slothful  man  says, 
There  is  a lion  in  the  path.  He  says  well. 
The  quiet  ///^slothful  man  says  the  same,  and 
knows  it  too.  But  they  differ  in  their  further 
reading  of  the  text.  The  slothful  man  says, 
I shall  be  slain,  and  the  unslothful,  It  shall 
be.  It  is  the  first  ugly  and  strong  enemy 
that  rises  against  us,  all  future  victory  de- 
pending on  victory  over  that.  Kill  it  ; and 
through  all  the  rest  of  life,  what  was  once 
dreadful  is  your  armor,  and  you  are  clothed 
with  that  conquest  for  every  other,  and 
helmed  with  its  crest  of  fortitude  for  evermore. 

Alas,  we  have  most  of  us  to  walk  bare- 
headed ; but  that  is  the  meaning  of  the  story 
of  Nemea, — worth  laying  to  heart  and  think- 
ing of  sometimes,  when  you  see  a dish  gar-^ 


Zbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  243 

nished  with  parsley,  which  was  the  crown 
at  the  Nemean  games. 

174.  How  far,  then,  have  we  got  in  our 
list  of  the  merits  of  Greek  art  now  ? 

Sound  knowledge. 

Simple  aims. 

Mastered  craft. 

Vivid  invention. 

Strong  common  sense. 

And  eternally  true  and  wise  meaning. 

Are  these  not  enough  ? Here  is  one  more, 
then,  which  will  find  favor,  I should  think, 
with  the  British  Lion.  Greek  art  is  never 
frightened  at  anything  ; it  is  always  cool. 

175.  It  differs  essentially  from  all  other 
art,  past  or  present,  in  this  incapability  of 
being  frightened.  Half  the  power  and  im- 
agination of  every  other  school  depend  on 
a certain  feverish  terror  mingling  with  their 
sense  of  beauty, — the  feeling  that  a child 
has  in  a dark  room,  or  a sick  person  in  see- 
ing ugly  dreams.  But  the  Greeks  never 
have  ugly  dreams.  They  cannot  draw  any- 
thing ugly  when  they  try.  Sometimes  they 
put  themselves  to  their  wits'-end  to  draw 
an  ugly  thing, — the  Medusa’s  head,  for  in- 
stance,'— but  they  can’t  do  it,  not  they,  be- 


244  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bir* 

cause  nothing  frightens  them.  They  widen 
the  mouth,  and  grind  the  teeth,  and  puff  the 
cheeks,  and  set  the  eyes,  a goggling  ; and 
the  thing  is  only  ridiculous  after  all,  not  the 
least  dreadful,  for  there  is  no  dread  in  their 
hearts.  Pensiveness ; amazement  ; often 
deepest  grief  and  desolateness.  All  these  ; 
but  terror  never.  Everlasting  calm  in  the 
presence  of  all  fate  ; and  joy  such  as  they 
could  win,  not  indeed  in  a perfect  beauty, 
but  in  beauty  at  perfect  rest ! A kind  of  art 
this,  surely,  to  be  looked  at,  and  thought 
upon  sometimes  with  profit,  even  in  these 
latter  days. 

176.  To  be  looked  at  sometimes.  Not 
continually,  and  never  as  a model  for  imi- 
tation. For  you  are  not  Greeks  ; but,  for 
better  or  worse,  English  creatures  ; and  can- 
not do,  even  if  it  were  a thousand  times  bet- 
ter worth  doing,  anything  well,  except  what 
your  English  hearts  shall  prompt,  and  your 
English  skies  teach  you.  For  all  good  art 
is  the  natural  utterance  of  its  own  people  in 
its  own  day. 

But  also,  your  own  art  is  a better  and 
brighter  one  than  ever  this  Greek  art  was. 
Many  motives,  powers,  and  insights  have 


(Siueen  of  tbe  Bit*  245 

been  added  to  those  elder  ones.  The  very 
corruptions  into  which  we  have  fallen  are 
signs  of  a subtle  life,  higher  than  theirs  was, 
and  therefore  more  fearful  in  its  faults  and 
death.  Christianity  has  neither  superseded, 
nor,  by  itself,  excelled  heathenism ; but  it 
has  added  its  own  good,  won  also  by  many 
a Nemean  contest  in  dark  valleys,  to  all  that 
was  good  and  noble  in  heathenism ; and 
our  present  thoughts  and  work,  when  they 
are  right,  are  nobler  than  the  heathen's. 
And  we  are  not  reverent  enough  to  them, 
because  we  possess  too  much  of  them. 
That  sketch  of  four  cherub  heads  from  an 
English  girl,  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  at 
Kensington,  is  an  incomparably  finer  thing 
than  ever,  the  Greeks  did.  Ineffably  tender 
in  the  touch,  yet  Herculean  in  power ; in- 
nocent, yet  exalted  in  feeling  ; pure  in  color 
as  a pearl ; reserved  and  decisive  in  design, 
as  this  Lion  crest, — if  it  alone  existed  of  such, 
— if  it  were  a picture  by  Zeuxis,  the  only  one 
left  in  the  world,  and  you  build  a shrine  for 
it,  and  were  allowed  to  see  it  only  seven 
days  in  a year,  it  alone  would  teach  you  all 
of  art  that  you  ever  needed  to  know.  But 
you  do  not  learn  from  this  or  any  other  such 


246  ^Tbe  (Slueen  ot  the  Uix. 

work,  because  you  have  not  reverence  enough 
for  them,  and  are  trying  to  learn  from  all  at 
once,  and  from  a hundred  other  masters  be- 
sides. 

177.  Here,  then,  is  the  practical  advice 
which  I would  venture  to  deduce  from  what 
I have  tried  to  show  you.  Use  Greek  art  as 
a first,  not  a final,  teacher.  Learn  to  draw 
carefully  from  Greek  work  ; above  all,  to 
place  forms  correctly,  and  to  use  light  and 
shade  tenderly.  Never  allow  yourselves 
black  shadows.  It  is  easy  to  make  things 
look  round  and  projecting  ; but  the  things  to 
exercise  yourselves  in  are  the  placing  of  the 
masses,  and  the  modelling  of  the  lights.  It 
is  an  admirable  exercise  to  take  a pale  wash 
of  color  for  all  the  shadows,  never  reinforc- 
ing it  everywhere,  but  drawing  the  statue  as 
if  it  were  in  far  distance,  making  all  the  darks 
one  flat  pale  tint.  Then  model  from  those 
into  the  lights,  rounding  as  well  as  you  can, 
on  those  subtle  conditions.  In  your  chalk 
drawings,  separate  the  lights  from  the  darks 
at  once  all  over  ; then  reinforce  the  darks 
slightly  where  absolutely  necessary,  and  put 
your  whole  strength  on  the  lights  and  their 
limits.  Then,  when  you  have  learned  to 


tLbc  (Slueen  of  tbe  Bfr* 


247 


draw  thoroughly,  take  one  master  for  your 
painting,  as  you  would  have  done  necessa- 
rily in  old  times  by  being  put  into  his  school 
(were  I to  choose  for  you,  it  should  be 
among  six  men  only — Titian,  Correggio, 
Paul  Veronese,  Velasquez,  Reynolds,  or 
Holbein).  If  you  are  a landscapist.  Turner 
must  be  your  only  guide  (for  no  other  great 
landscape  painter  has  yet  lived);  and  hav- 
ing chosen,  do  your  best  to  understand  your 
own  chosen  master,  and  obey  him,  and  no 
one  else,  till  you  have  strength  to  deal  with 
the  nature  itself  round  you,  and  then,  be 
your  own  master,  and  see  with  your  own 
eyes.  If  you  have  got  masterhood  or  sight 
in  you,  that  is  the  way  to  make  the  most  of 
them  ; and  if  you  have  neither,  you  will  at 
least  be  sound  in  your  work,  prevented  from 
immodest  and  useless  effort,  and  protected 
from  vulgar  and  fantastic  error. 

And  so  I wish  you  all,  good  speed,  and 
the  favor  of  Hercules  and  of  the  Muses  ; and 
to  those  who  shall  best  deserve  them,  the 
crown  of  Parsley  first  and  then  of  the 
Laurel. 


THE  END. 


•Siia’iiV* 


I 


• ♦ 


